the 59th hunger games - open SYOT
by adoeinthemeadowes
Summary: the 59th hunger games is the most brutal, electrifying, romantic and savage games the Capitol has ever seen. After all, there are no rules in the arena. 24 tributes, 24 chances at being a victor. Let the Games begin. SYOT OPEN
1. Chapter 1

Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins, I own nothing.

Waverly Tuffington, 27, Gamemaker, Capitol

Three Weeks After the 58th Hunger Games;

I always wonder at what moment I'll begin to hate myself. The time when I'll look in the mirror and instead of seeing a pretty, blonde haired woman glowing with her ambition and success as a Gamemaker; I'll see the vile creature who organizes the death of teenagers for sport.

Logically, I know the moment must be coming, but I don't hope for it. I love my job too much and I've really gotten very good at it. President Snow said so himself when he sent me the hand-written thank you note last week. The one that promoted me to Head Gamemaker, the youngest one yet.

The fifty-eighth Hunger Games, the one I _single-handedly_ organized was the most popular Games yet. The Capitol _adored_ it. Viewership doubled and three more souvenir shops opened in the heart of the city. Yesterday, I picked up a t-shirt with the Victor, Golden Hendrick's face on it. I wear it with pride.

I lift President Snow's handwritten note again and smile at the fancy, weighted paper. His handwriting is a beautiful, ancient calligraphy. The I in his signature is dotted with a drop of red liquid and I'm unsure of weather it's ink or blood. Not that it matters, it's from the President.

I read it again, feeling the warm sense of pride wash over me.

Ms. Waverly Tuffington,

I want to personally congratulate you on the success of this year's Games. You designed a deliciously dangerous arena and a terrifyingly successful Games. Bask in your success, Ms. Tuffington. You've earned it. I would like to personally offer you the position of Head Gamemaker for the upcoming 59th Hunger Games. I'm sure you already have quite a few ideas and I look forward to hearing them at our strategy meeting next week. I know you will make these Games, unforgettable.

My Sincerest Thanks and Admiration,

President Snow.

I smile at the letter as a wide smirk stretches across my face. He has no idea the things I have planned. If he liked last years Games, he's in for a real treat. The 59th Hunger Games will be the most brutal yet…..

Authors Note: This is an SYOT - 24 Tribute Spots are Open Currently and I'll update my Profile when those fill. I plan on updating twice a week, at least, and am looking forward to this. Please submit your tribute via PM or Review, although PM is probably easier. I will be updating which tributes are taken and available on my profile so keep an eye out for that. I'll also PM you if I choose your tribute. Here is the tribute form; be creative and have fun with it! It will also be in my profile. Feel free to submit more than one tribute, I'm open to all kinds. Thanks! Also, Heads up, the more you comment the longer you're tribute will live in the arena. May the Odds Be Ever in Your Favor!


	2. Tribute List

A/N: Before We Begin the District One Reaping, Behold! The Tributes of the 59th Hunger Games.

 **Tribute List:**

District One Male: Brandi Boyle 18, _LongingForRomeo_

District One Female: Maia Boyle, 18 _LongingForRomeo_

District Two Male: Lykon Sestius, 18 _Nemris_

District Two Female: Aurelia Vespillo, 18 _HoshiNyanGirl_

District Three Male: Marcus Sparks, 14 _TheAmazingJAJ_

District Three Female: Futura Bug, 14 _foxfaceisthebest_

District Four Male: Finn Landers, 16 _TheAmazingJAJ_

District Four Female: Sedna Dyan, 18 _Juud108_

District Five Male: Niko Dyne, 18 _Elim9_

District Five Female: Lydia Light, 14

District Six Male: Lincoln Nash, 16 _districtsixteen_

District Six Female: Tyler Minroe, 15 _BabyRue11_

District Seven Male: Elm Halloway, 12 _Westworldfan7_

District Seven Female: Morgan Mak, 17 _Jailynee_

District Eight Male: Junez Croster, _Manny16945_

District Eight Female: Velvet Wilkinson, 15 _districtsixteen_

District Nine Male: Grant Blunt, 14 _Jaiynee_

 _District Nine Female: Grain Garner, 16 HoshiNyanGirl_

District Ten Male: Gael Yule, 17 _Juud108_

District Ten Female: Crickett DeGraw, 17 _Westworldfan7_

District Eleven Male: Bale Tempin, 13 _mauaradermemories_

District Eleven Female: Melody Twig, 15 mauradermemories

District Twelve Male: Shiloh Bellows, 14 _Elim9_

District Twelve Female: Cinder Mooreton 16, _WestWorldfan7_


	3. District One Reaping

**Maia Boyle, 18, District One**

There is always something special in the air on Reaping Day, a sort of enthusiasm that is so clear and present, everyone in the District can feel it. It is the beginning and the end. The day twenty-three people will dread. The day I will remember forever. Reaping Day is always exciting. Today is no different. In fact, it's even better. Today isn't any Reaping Day. Today is _mine_.

My brother mocked me for the amount of time I spent getting ready, though I ignored every single one of his jibes. For my twin, he's surprisingly thick headed when it comes to what please me. He's supposed to know me better than anyone. He should have known better than to mess with me today of all days.

My silvery, blonde hair falls in perfect waves down my back. Girls in my academy sigh in envy when they see it on a normal day, today they'll be silent with jealousy. I spent a decent time on my makeup too, lining my dark lashes with thick charcoal that makes my blue eyes shine brilliantly. My skin is a perfect, smooth ivory. My lips are painted blood-red.

The dress I chose was very expensive, not that it mattered much to my father. He'd pay for whatever I needed. He wants a victor after all. At my neck hangs an opal the size of my fist. A gift from my father's jewel-cutting shop. As I stare at it in the mirror, I can't decide which is more beautiful today; the gemstone or me. The people of the Capitol will be envious of both, I suppose. When I win, every little girl and woman in the Capitol will demand opals too.

My brother, Brandi and my father wait for me at the kitchen table. Father's suit is new and perfectly ironed. He knows he will be on camera today and is dressing for the part. When he sees me he gives me a curt nod that I know means he approves. Not that he'd ever say it. He always says positive reinforcement makes people weak. Weak people do not win the Games. And that's all he's ever wanted from me, and Brandi too. He wants a victor for a child. He will not settle for less. No matter the cost. Today is the first day in years he looks at me like I might become the person he wants me to be. I will be. My father's daughter will be victor.

Beside my father, Brandi looks effortlessly perfect. He wears a new sweater, and his blonde hair is tied up in his usual bun. Our faces are similar enough that I can acknowledge his attractiveness. We have the same hair, same piercing blue eyes, sharp cheekbones and deadly strength.

He raises an eyebrow at me, and the familiar red scar that cuts across his eyebrow ripples. The one I gave to him the year before. I grin at it. Every time I see it, it brings me an intense amount of pleasure. It really is too bad it didn't nick the eye.

"Are you finally ready, Maia?" Brandi asks. "You won't be able to volunteer if you're late."

I roll my eyes at his condescending tone. The one he practices for moments such as this. "Neither will you," I remind him.

A furious look crosses my father's face and I almost regret making the joke. It certainly isn't funny to him. This is his year. Both of his children are volunteering. He was two chances at having his child be the Victor of the 59th Hunger Games. Too bad he had twins. If Brandi and I had been a year apart, he surely would have made us both volunteer on different years. Instead, he'll have to settle for one child as a Victor, and the other dead.

Twin v. Twin. My father will win no matter which one of us dies. As long as he has his Victor, he'll be pleased.

Brandi rolls his eyes, "You're the one who took three hours getting ready."

"Not today, you two," my father snaps straightening his tie. "I swear if either of you embarrass me, I'll break both of your arms, myself."

This shuts Brandi up immediately. He knows like I do that my father isn't joking, and neither of us want the pressure of trying to kill the other with one less working limb.

"Where's mom?" I ask quickly.

My father sighs, "Getting someone hanged by Peacekeepers, no doubt. That woman goes through employees faster than anyone in the District."

I stifle a laugh. Our mother's behavior is notorious around the District. Anyone who annoys her usually ends up in front of the Peacekeepers, with her innocently claiming some theft of a jewel. It usually works in her favor, not surprising with her ample breasts and pouty lips. Peacekeepers fall over themselves to do what she asks. Brandi and I should consider ourselves lucky she never brought us to the Peacekeepers.

"There's nothing wrong with displaying strength and power, Father. You should approve of Mother's actions." Brandi says.

"We still have to live in this District. It's different," My father reminds him harshly. "She shouldn't behave like that. But you can feel free to hang as many people as you'd like in the arena."

Brandi smiles cruelly. "Oh, I plan on it."

He gives me a tiny smirk and I know he thinks I'm included on that list. I want to snort. He's so arrogant.

Our father ushers us from the house quickly and we head for the city square. We pass by the bigger houses first. The one's like ours, that belong to the wealthiest families in the Districts. Everyone we pass has dressed up for the Reaping, but not one of them holds a candle to Brandi or I. Not only are we the most talented. We're the most beautiful, too.

A gaggle of girls in colorful dresses giggle and point as Brandi passes. He grins at them, flashing them all smiles and winks. I want to roll my eyes. Brandi has always let us women distract him. He's slept with practically every girl his age in this district, and it takes time away from his training. I understand the temptation. District boys come crawling to our house for me constantly, but I'm focused enough to ignore them and keep training. Brandi lacks focus. It's the reason he will die in the Games. It's the reason I will win.

As we walk, we're met with brightly covered signs hanging from the windows of our neighbors. I grin as I see them. Each one is proudly displaying a name; either Maia or Brandi. Our fellow District 1 inhabitants know we will be volunteering and are showing they're support. I'm pleased to see that many of them don my name.

My father notices them too and his mood improves as we get closer to the square.

"Now" he tells us sternly, "Remember what I told you. If anyone, and I mean anyone tries to volunteer before you, rip their heads off. This is your year. If you do not volunteer, there will be no home for either of you to come home too. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," Brandi answers.

I nod my head. "Yes."

My father's face relaxes as we approach the square. "Good. Well ready yourselves then."

I straighten my hair and arch my back. My father has nothing to worry about it when it comes to me. No one will take my spot today. I will volunteer.

I will be victor.

 **Brandi Boyle, 18, District One**

Maia looks ridiculous. She spent hours getting ready and now she's done up like a prostitute. She must really know she has no chance of beating me if she's had to sink to these measures in order to be noticed. I can't say it shocks me. My sister is a formidable opponent; beautiful and deadly with weapons. On any other year, in any other Games, she would flourish. But not this year. Not these Games.

She is nothing compared to me.

I think she must know this, even on a subconscious level. That's probably why she chose such an ornate jewel for her District token. She needs something for people to remember her, to sponsor her. My father offered us both a luxury piece from his jewel shop to be our tokens. I'm not naïve enough to think it was a kindness He wants one of us to win. He wants us to be distinct.

I choose a simple gold cuff, inlaid with a diamond, so unlike Maia's giant opal. I don't need flashy jewels to show the people of the Capitol I will win. I can do that all on my own.

Our trainers at the academy are evenly split on our odds. Some of the more naïve ones believe Maia can win. They're blinded by her unwavering determination and unrelenting focus. Like that's all it takes to win the Games? Puh-lease. You need to be smart, cunning, and charming. The other trainers, the smart ones, support me.

My father seems to be likeminded. It doesn't matter how much Maia sucks up to him, no matter how many hours she spends in the Academy throwing axes, he still never favors her. He must know, having had some parental six sense, that I will win and bring him the glory of a victor. The glory he has wanted for years.

Most of the girls in the District follow me with their eyes as we make it to the reaping square. They smile and wave, hoping ruefully that I'll notice one of them. On a normal day, they want my attention. Now that I will be Victor soon, they're hoping to become my wife.

Most of the District has already assembled in the square and they're all very excited when Maia and I arrive. Everyone from the Academy already knows the trainers have put their support behind us, that they have chosen us. They'd be stupid to question it. And if anyone tried to challenge us by volunteering, well…Maia and I would take care of it.

The crowd of eligible children parts for us, and I chuckle at the gesture. The other eighteen year olds cast us dirty glances as we make our way to the very front. The jealousy in their eyes in undeniable. They want to be us. I would too if I were them.

"Feels good, huh?" Maia says, a smirk reaching across her wide lips.

"Very," I tell her. Most of the time, Maia and I are thinking the same thing. Whether it's some kind of twin connection or being raised similarly, I don't know.

The eyes of everyone in the District is on us, including the Mayor and the hordes of past victors. Peering at me with a strangely interested look, is Golden Hendricks, last year's Victor. She looks undeniably beautiful. A year in Victor's Village has done her well. Her golden blonde hair falls down her back in large ringlet curls that she plays with as she chats with the other tributes. She doesn't take her eyes off of me once, and I give her a sultry smile. Perhaps when I come back, we'll get together. Two victors, how fitting. It happens often in District One, with our immense pool of victor's, but not usually with two such attractive and talented ones. Any child of ours would dominate their Games.

The reaping goes very slowly. The mayor gives us quick words of encouragement and then turns it over to the Capitol people. Our escort is a new face this year, a sultry blonde from the Capitol who is clearly enjoying her fifteen minutes of fame. She draws out the whole process and the Capitol video. When she does finally draw the female tributes name, it's one of the poorer girls in the District. The name has barely slipped from the Escorts name when Maia steps forward.

"I volunteer!" Maia practically shouts. She's so nervous about missing her chance she didn't even wait for the Escort to call for Volunteers. The escort is delighted anyway and beams as Maia makes her way to the stage.

"Your name, sweetheart?" she asks.

Maia's eyes are as hard as steel as she takes the microphone. "Maia Boyle."

The audience gives a little clap. The other eighteen-year-old girls give her looks like they want to rip her throat out, but Maia seems to be basking in her moment.

The escort moves on quickly and draws a boy's name. It's another boy from the academy. He's seventeen. He looks mildly excited about the possibility of going into the Games, but the look vanishes when I take a step forward.

"I volunteer!"

The escort looks downright thrilled. When I stride onto the stage I can see her sizing me up, and her eyes delight at what she sees. I grin at her. She's no Golden, but she's pretty hot for someone from the Capitol.

"And your name?" she purrs.

"Brandi Boyle," I say firmly.

The escort lets out a chipper little noise and claps her hands together. "Boyle? You two must be twins."

Maia beams at her so wildly, I know it's fake. "Yes."

"Obviously," I say"

"How Exciting!" The escort claps and turns to the crowd, "Ladies and Gentlemen, the District One tributes for the 59th Hunger Games! Maia and Brandi Boyle!"

 _Yes, I think,_ the tributes and the Victor, Brandi Boyle.


	4. District Two Reaping

**Authors Note: You guys are so sweet. Your reviews make me so excited and make all the time I devote to this story** **SO SO worth it. Y'all are awesome. I'll respond to them as soon as I can. Thank you for the love!**

 **DISTRICT TWO REAPING:**

 **Aurelia Vespillo, 18, District Two:**

The punching bag in front of me is practically in shreds. It was fine earlier, but after I used it to practice with the throwing knifes, it's become pretty much useless.

I spent hours this morning slamming my fists into it over and over until my knuckles bruised. They're a happy combination between red and purple now. In some spots, they're even bleeding. They're perfect. I want them to look as rough and damaged as I can. I want to look like a threat the moment I walk up to the reaping stage. Some of the other girls take a different approach, spending hours on their hair and makeup, and picking out their nicest dresses. I don't see the point. Who cares if the Capitol thinks you're pretty? There's always pretty tributes, and guess what? They _die._ The only thing that matters is how tough you are. Whether you can survive and kill. I want every other tribute in the arena to know, just from my reaping, that Aurelia Vespillo is a force to be reckoned with.

Technically speaking, Saxia Masone is the _chosen_ tribute. She's the girl the trainers at the academy decided would give District Two the best edge, and have asked to volunteer. They announced it yesterday, Saxia Masone and Lykon Sestius are the chosen tributes. I came in second place. Fury was too small an emotion to describe how I felt.

Saxia is not better than me. Saxia is _prettier_ than me.

When it comes down to hand to hand battles, I could shred her in seconds and everyone here knows it, but that's not what they care about. What they care about, is that Saxia's big blue eyes, and perfectly styled brown hair can get her sponsors. Not like me.

I'm the girl with the broad shoulders and messy auburn hair. Pretty _enough_ but certainly not gorgeous like Saxia. The trainers tell me my bangs fall too much into my eyes, making me look too threatening. My skin is covered in too many scars from training. _Saxia's_ a safer bet.

Even thinking about it makes me so furious I slam my fists into the punching bag again, giving myself a fresh bruise. I don't care what the district or the trainers think. I am better than Saxia. I am volunteering. All I have to do is beat her to it. As long as I get there first, I'll be the tribute. Once I win, everyone will forgive me. Except maybe Saxia, but I don't care one bit about her or her pretty face.

I'd be content to spend every last minute I had practicing in the training room, but when I see my older sister Octavia standing in the doorway, I know I've overstayed. Her nails are still covered in dry plaster from her job yesterday and in her hands, she clutches a light-yellow dress she used to wear to reaping's. Octavia is the only one I told about my plans to Volunteer. She never volunteered herself, but she supports me nonetheless.

"If you don't get ready now, you'll have to go to the reaping exactly as you are," Octavia reminds me.

"So what?" I ask. "Doesn't matter if I clean up. You know Saxia will look perfect. I might as well go like I am."

Octavia shakes her head. "No. Come on. I'll help you look nice."

I give the punching bag one final kick. "Fine. But just the dress. That's it."

"Well, I'm going to brush your hair too, and a little lipstick wouldn't kill you. You've already given yourself enough bruises to look lethal."

I sigh and nod, and Octavia's face breaks into a wide smile. As much as I hate it, I know she's right. If I'm going to piss off the entire district, I might as well look nice while doing it.

 **** **Lykon Sestius, 18, District Two:**

The entirety of District Two is in the city circle today. The trainers from the Academy treated me, Saxia and our families to a lavish lunch in one of the restaurants overlooking the square. They want to treat their chosen victors well. They are proud of us.

I don't care much about this meal. It's just a formality. I hate these parts of the Games; I don't see the point of any of it. The Tribute parade, the Training, the Interviews? They're pointless. They just give the weaker tributes an excuse to be noticed. The only thing that matters is what happens after the Gong rings. No one cares what you wore to the Tribute Parade when a tribute is bashing your head in with a rock.

I'm strong, I've got nothing to worry about. I know I will be fine. But Saxia? I'd be worried if I were her.

She's eating all of this up. She and her younger sisters gush to the trainers and go on and on about how excited she is. I can't help but get annoyed by her. Every person who was in the academy with us knows that Aurelia was the better fighter. Aurelia should have been tribute. Saxia was only chosen because of how she looks.

Not that I necessarily _blame_ the trainers. Saxia is hot. I can hardly take my eyes off of her every time she shows up to the academy in those tight, spandex training outfits. But in terms of a chance at winning this thing? Aurelia outperformed her every time.

Welcome to District Two, where everyone knows that the Capitol _chooses_ the Victor. Saxia thinks her face will be enough to help her. I know better. Strength and brutality is the only thing that helps you win. Good thing I have tons of both.

The meal finishes quickly and our families leave first, heading off to the square to watch with the rest of the ineligible people.

Saxia and I walk to the square together. She's going on and on about how excited she is to go to the Capitol and meet her stylists. I barely listen.

"Right?" Saxia asks. I wasn't paying attention to what she was saying and turn back to her with an annoyed grimace.

"What?"

"The interviews," she repeats. "Aren't you excited to talk to all of Panem?"

"Oh." I snort. "No, I'm more excited about the Games."

Saxia rolls her huge eyes, "Well, obviously. But I mean you could try and act a little excited about the rest of it. Everyone's going to be so jealous of the stuff we get to wear…"

I drown her out after that. The Reaping is about to begin. I look over to the other eighteen year old's, the other kids from the academy who haven't been chosen. They look bored, they're waiting for this whole thing to be over so they can move on with their day. In the crowd, I see Aurelia in a light-yellow dress that looks so out of place on her I want to laugh. Then I remember how furious she must be and think against it. Her knuckles are bruised and bloody, like she decided to take all of her aggression out already. She really would make a better tribute than Saxia. Saxia looks like she would break down and lose it if someone messed up her hair.

I try to turn my attention back to the reaping. The procedural stuff is too boring to hold my attention. I don't start listening again until after the girl name is reaped. It's some twelve-year-old girl. I see Saxia straighten her satin dress, her eyes locked on the stage. When they call for Volunteers, she arches her back and puffs out her chest, taking a strong step forward. She's too confident.

Before she can open her mouth, Aurelia barrels past her and shouts "I Volunteer!"

The crowd goes silent and Saxia lets out such a violent screech it's almost deafening.

"No!" She roars, her eyes lit with a new kind of vicious fury. Her upper lip curls back over her teeth. She doesn't look so pretty when she does that. "I'm the chosen volunteer! Me!"

Aurelia gives her a cocky smirk. "I guess you should have been faster then."

She brushes her hair over her shoulder and pushes past Saxia, who screeches again. She's crying now and Aurelia looks downright thrilled as she takes her place on the stage.

I start to laugh. This is the best thing I've ever seen. Saxia is unraveling before the crowd and eventually one of the other girls has the sense to drag her away from the cameras. She'll be furious no doubt. What Aurelia did was kind of unprecedented, but there aren't technically any rules against it. Per usual, she outsmarted Saxia.

The escort looks terrified as she hands the microphone to Aurelia and calls out her name. She knows whatever happened wasn't scripted and the leaders of District Two won't be happy, but there's nothing they can do now. All of Panem has already seen it.

When they reap the boys, I focus again. I won't let what happened to Saxia, happen to me. They call the name of a young boy, and I stride forward and volunteer before anyone else can.

The crowd cheers and the trainers look relaxed again. At least one of their choices made it through this process. After I announce my name to the audience. I give Aurelia a wide smile, and she returns it. We both know it's her who deserves to be standing on this stage.

The escort announces our names again and the crowd cheers. A dark thought occurs to me while I stand there in front of my cheering district. I shouldn't be happy that Aurelia is here. I should be furious. Saxia was stupid, and vapid and weak. She would have been way easier to take out. That's what I should have wanted. Aurelia? She's…She's a real competitor. I may be the strongest person in the district, but she may be someone I'll have to look out for.

Her volunteering will be the only surprise she's allowed to have in this process. I have to make sure I kill Aurelia.

After all, there can only be on Victor.


	5. District Three Reaping

DISTRICT THREE REAPING:

 **Futura Bug, 14, District Three**

The only good thing about Reaping Day is that I don't have to go to school. For most of my District, that's the worst part. Time taken away from learning in the classroom or in their jobs, makes them frustrated and irritated. It's like they can't function without having something to _do_. Something to _learn._ I guess I'd feel that way too if I were as smart as them. But as my parents like to remind me every single _stinking_ day, I'm not.

I try, I really do. I study twice as much and four times as hard as everyone else I know, but it doesn't seem to matter. I didn't get the brains that the rest of the District seems to have inherited so easily. It doesn't make any sense and I know that. My parents are genius authoritarians, and expected that from both of their children. They were thrilled with my older brother Ryam. How easily he managed perfect grades, working in the factories and inventing things in his spare time!

They display his science fair trophies and academic achievement awards with pride. The house is littered with Ryam's accomplishments. If you glanced around, you might not even know I lived here.

Sometimes I wish he hadn't been born first. Somehow, I think having a daughter of average intelligence would have been easier for them to swallow if they hadn't already had perfect, genius Ryam.

They say I take after my grandfather, Hal. He also had a slower mind and never really fit in with the District. I get my poor eyesight from him too. The large, thick-lensed orange glasses I wear were once his. There a constant reminder every time in the look in the mirror, that he isn't coming back for me.

I wish he weren't dead. I liked hearing his stories. He had been around for every one of the Hunger Games and still remembered the Dark Days. His stories of Games past always made Reaping Days so much more bearable. Sometimes, if he was retelling a particularly good Games, like a Quarter Quell, some of the neighborhood kids would join us. The ones who never talked to me otherwise.

Mom was nicer to me when he was around too. She stopped caring after he died.

She didn't even care that _I_ almost died. I was _inches_ from that cliff when Dad caught me around the waist. I could have just as easily died when Grandpa did. I wanted too. That's why I followed after him when he jumped. Not that any of them cared.

This morning,my family and everyone else in the District for that matter, is too busy with the reaping to care much about me or my lack of mental facilities. Ryam was in a foul mood at breakfast. He's sixteen and still eligible, like me. He hates the idea of the Games. Not because he thinks he couldn't win, but because it would tear him away from his studies.

My parents at least, were nicer to me than usual, offering me one of the rolls my mother made for the occasion. They don't say very much. They only wish my brother and I good luck when we've reached the city square.

Ryam forgets about me the moment we arrive, and heads straight for the other kids his age. I disappear into the line of fourteen-year-old girls. I don't have any friends at school. Most of them are too busy studying to care about me or my friendship, no matter how much I try. They think I'm strange, and I can't blame them. I _am_ strange.

Today is no different. I stand quietly and try not to attract any more attention to myself. At the very least, I don't look different than the rest of them. Everyone in District Three has the same pallid complexion and mousy brown hair. Many of us have glasses. We're small boned, wiry people, and that doesn't bother us any. The people of District Three care way more about what's in your brain than what you look like.

The reaping goes by quickly. I want to get it over with as quickly as I can so that I can go home and enjoy the school-free day. Maybe I can convince Ryam to do something fun with me. I'll probably have to bribe him by promising to quiz him or something, but it would be worth it if we could actually do something together…

"Futura Bug!"

I wasn't paying any attention to the reaping, but the sound of my own name echoing through the microphone snaps my focus forward.

No. This can't be right. I must have misheard the escort. That, or I'm having some kind of hallucination. I can't have been…reaped.

It isn't a hallucination. The crowd of girls on either side of me parts like the red sea. They throw me furtive glances but the same thing is present in all of their eyes. I know what they're thinking; _Thank Panem it's Futura and not Ryam_. The District can afford to lose _my_ brain.

Tears start to roll down my cheek in a quick speed as I make my way to the stage. The world seems to be fuzzy on the edges. A ringing has formed in my ears. This is wrong. I know I'll die in the Games. Tears continue to roll down my face.

I knew I should have jumped off that cliff when I had the chance.

 **Marcus Sparks, 14, District Three**

I feel bad for Futura. She looks like she's going to throw up.

She's already crying, which I know isn't a good sign. All of Panem is watching this for crying out loud. I can't imagine it's a good thing to let all of the other tributes see you like that, but I guess no one's really thinking about that in the moment.

I only do because I think about _everything_ , always. My brain has always been my strongest attribute. My biggest accomplishment. My pride and joy. My best friend. My brain is all of that and more to me.

The teachers at school know I have potential. That's why the let me skip two grades. I'm eons ahead of the people in my classes, and most of them are seventeen. The leaders in the District have already spoken to my parents on numerous occasions, and from what I've overheard, I'm going to be offered a very lucrative job when I finish school.

The other kids at school, the ones my own age and the older ones, always come to me for help. They value what I can offer them. After I developed the new version of our holographic screens with my father, some of the teachers even came to me for help with their algorithms.

I know I'm lucky that I grew up in District Three. Only here would a kid like me; with tons of freckles, severe allergies and no upper strength, thrive.

But it's this time of year, especially, that I become very useful to my peers. It's not my studies, but my dark hobby that keeps them flocking to me.

I've studied every Hunger Games in my lifetime. I know all of the victors, their strategies and their arenas. My memory is so good I could tell you any District's tributes from any of the Games in the past ten years.

While I don't find the Games terribly valuable or interesting, the rest of the District does. I happen to think they're a bit of a pointless distraction, but my extensive knowledge of them makes me the go to person when people have questions or when the illegal betting starts. Nothing makes me happier than being the person people turn to for information, so every year I study them like I do everything else. I've gotten pretty good at calculating a tribute's chances at winning too. Discounting things like Gamemaker's interference and Mutts, I still usually guess the top three tributes. Whoever I bet on, the rest of the District usually follows. I predicted Golden Hendricks win last year on _reaping day_. People know I can predict a victor.

The escort sticks his hand in the bowl of male names and plucks a piece of paper. He unravels it slowly and then leans into the microphone to read the name.

"Marcus Sparks."

I intake a sharp breath. He chose the one name I never thought possible. I am only fourteen. I have never taken tesserae. My name is only in that bowl three times. The odds of my name being chosen are so minute I never considered the possibility. One single tear rolls down my cheek and I wipe it as I take a step forward towards the stage.

I can feel every pair of eyes in the District on me as I join Futura. I know exactly what they're thinking. Without me here, they'll have no idea who to bet on. I'm the one who always predicts the victor. I'm a genius at it.

Problem is, I know the facts. I know the statistics. I _know_ it won't be me.


	6. District Four Reaping

AUTHORS NOTE: Okay so I know I've been updating like crazy and it's because I've had a couple of work-free days and I wanted to get ahead on this story. The reapings will continue to be updated quickly. Once the reapings are all finished, i'll be updating twice a week, on Tuesday and Friday evenings. Thanks for being so awesome. You guys rock.

DISTRICT FOUR REAPING:

 **Sedna Dyan, 18, District Four**

The boat rocks slowly back and forth against the waves in a rhythmic pattern as we approach the dock. The movement is so familiar to me that I'm almost as good at balancing on the boat as I am on dry land. I'm probably _better_ on the water.

It was my dad's idea to take to the boat out this morning. We're on the docks before the sun rose, and I'm grateful for it. Who knows how long it will be before I get to be on the water again? Even the short Games last a week. The long ones, can last several. And even though every single person in the District hopes for a water-filled Arena, the chances are low. The Gamemakers usually give tributes one every couple of years, but there's no pattern to it and no way to know when one is coming.

When the boat is tied back onto the dock, my dad turns to me. A wide smile is stretched across his tanned, wrinkly skin. He looks a lot a like me when he does that. We have the same long black curly hair and the same full top lip. Our eyes are the same shade of sea green, a trademark among the people of District Four.

"I really want to let you know how proud I am of you, Sedna," he says firmly. "You're doing a great service to this District. Everyone here really appreciates it."

"Aw, Dad." I beam, as pride washes through me. "It's the _least_ I could. It's what we've been training for after all."

He looks at me with such a joyous expression, it's hard not to feel excited. This is the day we have both waited eighteen years for. This is the day that I prove how much I love District Four.

Ever since I could talk, my dad's instilled the importance of winning the Games, of volunteering. It's not for me, and it's not for him. It's for the _District._

Becoming a victor of the Hunger Games is not about the money or the fame. It's about the privilege of honoring your District. The joy of bestowing notoriety and parcels on the people you have grown up with. Killing the other tributes is a difficult thing to contend with, but ultimately, it's a sacrifice I have to make to keep my district afloat. It's the reason I've spent the last ten years training every single day at the Academy. I'm desperate to help my district in the largest way I can. The Games allows me this. Volunteering is the ultimate way I can give back.

I know my father is proud of me for doing this. It's the reason he's being so kind to me today. He's never likes me better than when I'm giving myself to a worthy cause like this, so I devote myself fully to it. I yearn for his approval.

District pride is an important thing to my father, and subsequently to me. It's present in everything we do and every choice we make. Owning the largest fishing company in the District has allowed us to keep much of the District fed, and employed. As a child, I often told my dad about the kids in my classes that looked hungry and begged him to employ their fathers. To his credit, he always indulged my whims and his employees became a central part of our family. Their love and compassion made up for the mother I lost. The mother who _left_ us.

I stop thinking about her the second she crosses my mind. She's ruined enough. I won't let the memory of her abandonment spoil today too. My father and I have worked too hard for this.

The dock is littered with father's employees today and most of them whistle and offer me congratulations as we pass. Yesterday, they threw us a huge party in the boathouse to celebrate. They're proud of my decision to volunteer. They believe District Four will be victorious this year.

Our District is pretty split on who will win this year, me or Finn, the other chosen tribute. It's impressive that Finn is only sixteen and so well-trained, but I think his arrogance will get in his way. I'm hoping it will.

"Are you meeting up with Serena?" My father asks as we stop at the front door of our large, ocean front house. He knows I planned to get ready for the reaping at my best friend's house.

"Yes," I lie quickly. "I'm heading over there now."

"It's going to take you three hours?" he asks in disbelief.

I shake the bag on my shoulder that I've filled with dresses, shoes and makeup. "It takes time to get pretty, Dad."

I've purposefully filled with this bag with more makeup than I could use in a lifetime, but it was necessary to keep up the lie. I have to be sneaky.

He lets out a little a chuckle. "All right, if you say so, Sed. Make sure you're not late for the reaping. I'll be waiting in the square."

"I won't be. I promise." I lean up to place a kiss on his cheek. "See you later."

Lying to him makes me feel exuberantly guilty, but I know it's for the best. I wait until he's disappeared back inside the house before I take off for the street that leads to the Academy. I will head to Serena's house to get ready, but _after_.

The training academy is crowded with people today. They all clap when they see me and offer me advice. I'm gracious and thankful, after all, these are the people who helped me get where I am, but I'm brief. I have something to accomplish here and can't waste any time.

I go to the second-floor training room and find it empty except for one of my trainers, Murray. He wears cotton training pants and a t-shirt stretched tightly across his chest. He may be only twenty, but his height topples over most of the men in our district. In his hand, he clutches a heavy rusted trident. When he sees me in the reflection of the mirrored wall, he turns and throws the trident at me, full force. I catch it in my right hand without blinking. I've worked with a trident every day for the last ten years. I can wield it like an extension of my arm. Murray's trained me well.

"Someone's ready," he smirks.

"I have genetic gifts," I joke. "It's all natural talent. Not even a minute of my success is you or the other trainers doing."

"How witty, Sed." Murray says, rolling his eyes.

He grins and strides across the floor, closing the distance between us with a kiss. I have to lean on the tips of my toes to meet him, but it doesn't matter. This is worth it.

Dating your trainer is not acceptable, it breaks tons of rules and violates contracts that we have both signed, but neither of us care. Being with each other is worth hiding it from everyone we know.

When we break apart, Murray sighs. "It's going to be a very lonely few weeks without you here."

I smile. "Yes, but when I get back I'll be a Victor, and then we won't have to hide this anymore."

That is the other thing that keeps me motivated to volunteer. Once I win the Games, no one will care what I do. I will have already brought pride to my district. My romantic life won't be of concern to anyone.

"Then we better get you to Serena's and get you ready," Murray says and opens the door to the training room.

We walk together through the academy and no one suspects a thing. Everyone is too preoccupied with me to notice Murray lingering around. They want to talk to me and offer me last pieces of advice, and I try to let them. This means something to them that is more than me or Murray and our selfish desires. Everyone wants a word with District Four's future victor. This is for them too. It's for the District.

So, I let them.

 **Finn Landers, 16, District Four**

I woke up later today than I wanted too. My sister, Marina was supposed to wake me up at dawn so I could fit it five hours of training and a swim, but now because of her mistake, I'll have to settle for _only_ three hours.

That's what I get for trusting Marina with anything evenly remotely important. That girl is probably the most useless woman in all of District Four. She's lucky she's got a head full of perfect, blonde hair or she'd probably end up living in our parent's house for the rest of her life. My older brothers, Jon and Tyler, at least work for my parents. It's not quite as exciting as becoming a victor, but at least they do something. Marina spends all day fixing her hair.

I'd have to feel for bad for my parents for having a daughter like Marina, if they didn't have a son like me. All of my talents make up for Marina ten times over, and they know it. They're not even subtle about their preference for me. Marina doesn't seem to mind it either. She appreciates my talents and easy attractiveness. She's hoping I win the Games as much as I do. Nothing would make her happier than spending the rest of her days loafing around in my mansion in Victor's Village.

I always knew I was destined for the Games, even before I was old enough to train at the academy. I was athletic, talented and charming. Other kid's parents would force their kids to hang out with me in the hopes that I would rub off on their own children. Girls have desperately hung around me since I was twelve, just in the hopes that I would notice them. I wasn't just beloved by my own parents, but by most of the District.

I am the unofficial prince of District Four.

Half of it is my face and charm, the other half is my undeniable skill. My parents both make luxury fishing boats. Their affluence allowed me to spend my every waking moment training in the academy. I didn't have to waste a single solitary moment working as an underpaid deck hand like the rest of the kids my age. Even, Sedna, the other chosen volunteer works half of her time on her father's fishing boats. It's a waste of time if you ask me. She should have done what I did and devoted every free moment to making myself a lethal killer.

That's why I was chosen as the District's volunteer so young. It's almost unheard of to volunteer at only sixteen, but I didn't see the point of waiting another two years. I'm already the best in the academy and everyone knows it. I want to win as soon as I could, so I can start reaping the benefits.

After a five mile swim this morning, I trained at the academy. All of the trainers were there to congratulate me and help me prepare for the reaping. Well, all of them except for Murray. He's disappeared somewhere, but I don't really mind his absence. Unlike most of the other trainers, he's made his preference for Sedna pretty clear. He thinks she's going to win. The thought is almost laughable. Sedna has got nothing on me. I'm the best pupil this academy's ever seen.

I bet Murray will feel pretty stupid when I kill her. I wonder if he'll come crawling back to me after her death, desperate to pretend he supported me all along? I'll laugh in his face if he does.

I spend all three of my hours training with my trident. It's by far my favorite weapon. I can't wait for the moment that I bury all three of the sharp spokes in another tribute. My first kill will go down in Hunger Games history.

When I finish training, I head home. It only takes me a few minutes to get ready for the reaping at home. My mother has laid out clothes for me on my bed. Khaki pants and a light blue oxford shirt that perfectly matches my eyes. Mother always picks out the best clothes for me. She must be proud of what an attractive son she's born.

I run my hands through my curly, blonde hair in the mirror and am confident I look handsome. I know being lethal is more important than being attractive where the Games are concerned, but being pretty certainly helps with sponsorship. I don't doubt that sponsors will be lining up for me the second they see my reaping.

My girlfriend, Alexia is waiting for me outside of our house. I've only been with her for a few months now, and already she's started to get on my nerves. This is only a temporary thing and I doubt she realizes it. The moment I become a victor, I can have any woman I want; from the Districts or the Capitol. I can have a different woman every night of the week. There's no way I'd stick around with a merchant's daughter when I'll have choices like that.

Alexia has obviously spent extra time getting ready today because her light brown hair is styled in perfect tight curls and she wears a new low cut white dress I've never seen before.

"I just can't believe you could be gone for _weeks_ , Finn" she sighs as we make our way to the square. It's filling up quickly with the eligible kids and we have to fight our way through the crowds.

"Yeah," I say, trying not to encourage her. "It's not that long though. I plan on being the fastest crowned victor in history."

"You better," she whines. "I'm going to miss you so much."

"I'm sure."

When we get to the front, we have no choice but to separate and Alexia walks away to join the other girls. Among them, I see Sedna and her friend Serena making their way to the front of the crowd. Serena and Sedna are always together, they have been since they first met at the academy. Serena is almost as good as Sedna in training, but not quite. One of the trainers told me she was their second choice. I wonder if they both know that? It's rare to see one of them out in the District without the other. Surely that information would have caused some tension among them. They must not know.

Maybe not though, they're both kind of harsh and unapproachable. Most people leave them to themselves. The boys in our training class know them because they're attractive and often to try to get their attention. It rarely works.

Personally, I think Serena's way cuter than Sedna. Sedna's too harsh and intimidating looking. She's tall and athletic and her hair is too long and unruly. Serena's the opposite of her in every way; ginger, friendly, warm. Sure, she can be a little bitchy at times, but it's worth it.

Maybe when I come back, I'll take Serena out. I'm sure my being a victor will make her get over her friend's death. If not, well, I'll have to convince her.

I see Murray has resurfaced too. He's standing near the edge of the spectators, away from the other trainers. He keeps shooting Sedna smiles and it makes her face turn a little pink. I wonder if there's something more than training going on with them. That could be interesting. That could be leverage I could use against Sedna in the Games.

When the escort gets to the bowl full of girl's names. He takes his time rifling through them. When he does finally pick a name, he reads it out very dramatically.

"Serena Finnegan!"

I let out a roar of laughter. This is too good to be true. Serena's been reaped. The Academy's second choice tribute has been chosen by the Capitol. I look to Serena and Sedna and see Serena is beaming from ear to ear. She tosses her hair behind her shoulder and bounds to the stage. She's excited. She thinks she's somehow earned a second chance way into the Games. She doesn't realize….

Horror is etched across Sedna's face. Absolute horror, and I know why. Serena is thrilled to be chosen, she wants to be in the Games. But Sedna is the chosen tribute. Sedna is going to volunteer anyway. She's going to rip this chance right away from her best friend.

When the escort asks for volunteers, Sedna shakily steps forward. Whatever confidence she had before, is long gone.

"I volunteer!" Sedna calls out weakly. Serena shoots her a death glare.

Serena immediately starts arguing with the escort as Sedna takes the stage. No amount of words from Sedna can seem to calm her and she refuses to leave the stage. People in the audience sigh. It's pathetic that Serena is fighting this. She knows the rules. She knows how volunteering works.

Eventually they cover the microphone and the Mayor walks over. He talks to both Serena and Sedna, and whatever he says has Serena in hysterics. Sedna is pleading with her, but Serena doesn't care. Her eyes narrow and she shoves Sedna as hard as she can out of her way, almost knocking Sedna off the stage. Sedna looks like she's going to cry. I sigh, that was stupid.

Tributes are Capitol Property. Hurting one of them before the Games could result in punishable death. Peacekeepers grab Serena by her arm, before she's even left the stage, and drag her out of the square. It's Henley and Maribor so I know she won't be hurt by them, but she'll definitely get a stern talking too, maybe even a fine.

The escort does his best on stage to regain the audience's attention and I can see it's taking everything in Sedna not to cry. She knows Serena won't forgive her for that, even if she wins. She's just lost her best friend. It looks like she's almost regretting her decision to volunteer.

Good, I think. I can worth with grief like that.

When they call for the boys, an eighteen-year-old is reaped, but he doesn't take the stage. He is too afraid of me after what Serena just pulled. I shout, "I Volunteer!" before they even call for them and join Sedna on stage.

All of the District is grinning at me now. Sedna has just proven to them what I already knew. She is weak. She feels too much. District Four will have a winner this year.

But it won't be Sedna.

It will be me.


	7. District Five Reaping

DISTRICT FIVE REAPING:

 **Lydia Light, 16, District Five**

I can't concentrate with all of the screaming that's going on inside of this house. Every single I time I reach the brush up to comb out my hair, I can hear another one of my siblings wailing in the other room. I just want them all to calm down. Today of all days, all I want is a little peace and quiet.

It's never quiet around here. Someone's always making noise. If it's not one of my brothers and sisters screaming and crying, it's my parents having one of their knock down drag outs fights. The neighbors know them so well that they don't even call the Peacekeepers anyone, they just ignore them. Normally, I'm used to all of the noise.

Including my parents, there's eight of us in this tiny three-bedroom apartment. With three brothers and two sisters, I know that things like silence and privacy are a rarity. I only ever get them when I'm at work. The hum of the electric power plants give me comfort. They drown out everything else, and give me time to think. That's something I very rarely get to do at home.

In the mirror, I catch of a glimpse of myself quickly and shudder. It doesn't matter how long I brush my hair, or how clean my pink reaping dress is, I'll never look nice. I haven't looked 'nice' since I was eight.

My fingers gingerly trace the weathered, waxy skin that covers the entirety of the right side of my face. The burns are long healed, but they have left behind ruined, blistered skin that is so terrifying to look at it, it doesn't matter what the left side looks like.

The 'accident' is one of the things we don't talk about. My little brother Bramy should never have been playing with the stove. My parents should have been watching him. They should have been the one's making dinner, not him. I was the one who pulled him out of the way when the fire flared off the burners. I was the one whose face got turned into a freak show.

My thirteen-year-old sister Lemon strides into the bedroom door without knocking. Her face is fresh and perfect, unmarred by nothing. Not even a freckle. I feel an upsurge of jealousy flare into my chest when I look at her. Her face is not too far off from what mine would look like if I had never been burned. It's hard not to envy her for that. She's so unaffectedly beautiful, it hurts me.

Her wavy hair is pulled away from her face in an intricately braided ponytail I know she did all on her own. She's never ask my mother for help. Even if she did, she wouldn't get it. My mother barely knows where her children are, let alone when they need something.

Lemon's beams when she sees my dress and runs one of her tiny hands over it.

"This is pretty," she says stroking the thick pink buttons. "Is this one of mom's old ones?"

I nod my head and she smiles again. "I like it. It's a nice color."

She wears one of my old reaping dresses and it's a little too big for her. The arms keep sliding off her bony shoulders.

"I like your hair," I tell her. "You're really getting good at that." My sister beams with pride.

From the other room, we hear my mother start screaming something vile at my father. Her shrieks shake the walls of the tiny apartment. Both Lemon and I flinch. Our little siblings start to cry again.

"Do you want me to do something to your hair?" Lemon asks, pretending she can't hear what's going on in the other room. My father's answering shouts are so loud now that I can barely hear her question.

"Sure." I sit down on the floor and Lemon comes behind me, running her hands through my light brown hair. She has quick, knowledgeable fingers that move effortlessly through the strands of hair, weaving them together like a professional.

"Are you nervous about today?" I ask her. "It's only your second reaping."

In the mirror, I see Lemon's face harden immediately and then she shrugs. "Not really. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to be reaped." She continues braiding my hair like she hasn't said anything.

I gasp at her. "What do you mean?"

She shrugs again, "I don't know. Sometimes I just think, life would be so much better if I could get out of here. I know chances are that I would die in the Games, but if I was reaped I'd get at least a week that was peaceful, you know? No fighting, no screaming. Just good food and nice clothes, with people actually taking care of me. All of that might be worth dying in the end." She gives a sympathetic little sigh and then shakes her head.

I don't know what to say. I'm horrified at my younger sister's words but in some strange way, I understand exactly what she means. Being reaped for the Hunger Games would be like taking an extremely lavish vacation. Except that particular vacation that ends in certain death. I can't help but think that it's not the worst trade in the world.

When Lemon finishes my hair, we both head out of the room and to the kitchen. There are broken plates scattered across the floor and my father sports a fresh, bleeding cut on his cheek. My mother's hands are marked up similarly. They're not speaking to one another, but there is still an enormous amount of tension in the room.

The other kids are sitting in the living room, some of them still crying. Two of the babies are in their dirty play pen and the toddlers are throwing spoons onto the floor from the couch. One of them is playing with a shard of broken plate from the kitchen, and I have to rip it from him. He already has a tiny cut from it in his fat, squishy hand. He wails even louder when I take it away.

Lemon sighs at the scene unfolding in front of her and reaches for the front door. We're the only two eligible kids in the house. It will be my parent's responsibility to gather the other children and bring them to the square. If they don't, Peacekeepers will show up. They probably will anyway. They know our house well enough by now.

I walk with Lemon to the square in silence. Neither of us feels much like talking. We just want to get this whole thing over with.

I only have one friend in the District, Gertie. She waits for me in the sixteen year olds section. We're not extremely close, but we usually do things together when we have spare time.

Gertie likes to sing. Sometimes we sit out in the circle and sing songs in the evenings. If people are feeling particularly generous, or pitiful when it comes to me, they often will leave us spare pennies. I have a whole jar full of them in my room. I've been saving up to buy Lemon some new shoes. Her's have holes in them.

"Your hair looks nice," Gertie says when I join her.

"Lem did it," I say quietly, and Gertie nods. That's all we say to each other until the reaping begins. The escort this year is a man with bright yellow hair. It's so garish I can hardly look at it. Instead I watch the promo video. It's the same one they play every year and normally I drown it out, but today I'm looking for a distraction.

When they finally get to the reaping, most of the District is bored. The girls name is drawn and called.

"Lydia Light!"

The escort smiles as he calls my name. I don't know why he looks so delighted. Gertie looks to me with a horrified expression and I make sure to keep my face even and careful. I will not cry. I haven't cried since I was a child. I deal with things. I always have. I will deal with this the same way.

I walk slowly up to the stage. When I climb the stairs, I see Lemon giving me a strange expression. It's not sad exactly, it's more contented. It hits me then that she truly believes what she said this morning in our room. Lemon believes I've been given a gift. A way out of our hellish family. She's probably happy for me.

I am going to the Games. I'm about to get a week-long, relaxing vacation. I will have an entire week where other people prepare me delicious meals and dress me in beautiful outfits. I will have my own room and bed. I will get to sleep in silence.

The thought calms me. Death is almost worth it.

Almost.

 **Niko Dyne, 18, District Five**

My hands still have blisters from the chemicals. I didn't know I was allergic to the spray we use to clean the Justice building windows until yesterday when I spilled it all over my hands. Now, they're covered in soft pink sores. They hurt a little but they'll heal soon, it was worth it anyway. When I was cleaning those windows, I overheard the Mayor tell one of the Peacekeepers that Harlowe Markham was caught helping train some of the eligible reaping kids. Apparently, they sent her to the capitol to face punishment from the President. She should have known better. No one's supposed to help kids train for the Games, especially not former Victors.

That's one of the things I love best about my job. The gossip. Being in the justice building, I overhear everything the officials of the District talk about. Being a Janitor isn't the most glamourous job in the District, but the inside information it gives me, makes it worth spending every one of my days cleaning. I've always been a good listener, and an even better eavesdropper. Whether it was at home, or school or around the District, I was always listening. People tend to overlook me. I'm nothing really to look at it, with my olive toned skin and greasy black hair. I'm easy to ignore, and people do. So now, I know secrets and gossip about most of the people in the district.

It isn't as though I always want to be a janitor. In school, I tried to do well as I could so that I could transfer to the Peacekeeper's training school. I got decent grades, but it ended up not mattering. The recruiting scout told me I was too short. They told me they'd never take a man who was only five 'four. Well, actually what they told me is that wouldn't take "a man who could be overpowered by a twelve-year-old girl", but I edited that story before I told anyone because I thought it was rude.

No one minded much that I wasn't going to become a Peacekeeper. My family was just thrilled I had a job and could contribute. Things are tough at home and we're often strapped for money. If being a janitor meant things would be a little easier on my parents and brother, I was happy.

The job ended up being very good for me. I know most of the Peacekeeper's in the district on a first name basis. Some of them, like Maxon and Treadwell have become my close friends outside of work.

On the morning of the reaping, I sit with Maxon on one of the walls lining the square. Kids are already starting to file in and take their spots. It's very relaxing knowing that this is my final eligible year. I hate the tightness in my chest I feel every year when Reaping Day comes around. My younger brother Kento still has four more eligible years, and he complains about it every chance he gets.

"I'm so glad I'm not eligible anymore," Maxon says shaking his head. He's taken off the helmet of his uniform and it sits beside him on the wall. "I wouldn't trade places with you for anything in the world."

"Thank Panem it's my final year," I agree, taking a bite out of the sandwich in my hand. "I don't think I could handle another year of this."

Maxon grins, "Any idea who's going to be reaped this year? You have all the gossip."

A tiny smile stretches across my face. I do know quite a bit. The mayor and some of his employees have been very chatty during the last week.

"Well," I say carefully, "Leanna Hobbly took out tesserae again this year. That's every year now. Statically she's got a really good chance of being picked. And I overheard Bartee Frank's betting on Joplin Terrance., and that kooky old bat has a gift for picking tributes. But, if you think the way I do, and believe that some of the reaping's are rigged, then you know Archie Bitterbalm is an excellent choice because that kid has had like five infractions in the last six months."

Maxon laughs. "You do know everything."

I shrug. "Benefits of being ignored, I guess."

When the square is close to full, I say goodbye to Maxon and leap from the wall. I pass by Kento on my way to the eighteen-year olds spot, and he gives me a big thumb up.

I know he's nervous, but somehow that kid still manages to always be in a good mood.

Everyone seems to be in an anxious mood today. All of these Peacekeepers are gathered at the edge of the square and even they seem eager to get this whole thing over with.

They girl tribute is drawn quickly. It's Lydia Light. Everyone in the District knows her, whether or not they've ever spoken to her. She comes from one of those rough, screaming families on the other side of the train tracks, but that's not what makes her so memorable. She got burned in some kind of chemical fire when she was younger and now most of her face is marred by horrible burn scars. I can't help but think how unfortunate her luck is. The Capitol is not going to take too kindly to a tribute who looks like that. It's unfortunate, but true. I wish someone would volunteer for her. Surely this girl has experienced enough already.

Surprisingly, she seems very calm when she takes the stage, almost like she expected it. Strange. I'm so busy watching her, I almost miss them call the boy tributes name.

"Niko Dyne!"

No. This isn't happening. No.

How? How is this possible. This is my last reaping. I'm supposed to be to suffer through it and then go home with Kento. I am not supposed to be reaped.

I mean I knew there was a chance, but I didn't ever really think it would be me. There were other years, like when I was fifteen, when I had a really bad feeling and thought I might be chosen, but not this year! This can't be possible.

Everyone is looking at me now. The eyes of the entire District are on me and I can't move. My knees have locked and now I'm frozen in place. I couldn't move if I wanted too.

The cameras are on me and people are starting to clear their throats. They're waiting for me to move, for me to walk to the stage, but I can't. My hands ball into fists.

Eventually a Peacekeeper comes to escort me to the stage. He grabs me by the forearm and drags me gently. It takes me a few seconds to realize it's Maxon. My friend is helping me.

When I finally make it to the stage, I see Lydia is looking at me with stern eyes. She probably thinks I'm ridiculous for requiring a Peacekeeper escort to make it up here. It's not my fault, she's so calm and brave. I'm freaking out. She should be freaking out too.

If I want to live, I know I have to start acting stronger than this. I have talents. They're not exactly one's people think of when they talk about the Games, but they're something.

People gossip everywhere, especially in the arena.

If I want to win, all I have to do is listen.


	8. District Six Reaping

DISTRICT SIX REAPING:

 **Tyler Minroe, 15, District 6:**

I am covered in mud and dirt when I traipse into the house. My younger brother Romeo is too. We had a very successful rugby game with some of the boys in our neighborhood. Successful for Romeo and I usually means coming in so filthy that my mom wants to hose us down before we're even allowed to set foot in back in the house.

Today is no different. Even though it's Reaping Day, I didn't let that stop me from joining the boys in their usual game. After all, this is one of the few days during the year that we all don't have to be in school. The boys were kind today and let me play without argument. Sometimes it takes more of a fight. They don't ever want a girl to join them, and now that my' arms broken, they like me even less. They think they're going to be held responsible for me getting hurt. They don't know that I could probably still beat them, even with one good arm.

It was playing rugby with the neighborhood boys that made me break my arm in the first place. One minute we were running after each other on the dirt-packed lot, and the next I tripped and landed flat on my right arm. It made an awful noise when the bone cracked, but I didn't let that stop me. I didn't cry and I finished the game. If you want to hang around the boys like I do, you can never let them see you cry.

Sometimes I wonder if the boys forget I'm a girl. I cut off all of my hair the second I was old enough to pick up a pair of scissors, and now it sits short spiky and black, just like Romeo's. My frame is small and just as straight as there's too. My mother goes on and on about how soon my womanly figure will develop, but honestly, I hope it stays away. Somehow, I think breasts will only get in my way.

. Looking more like a girl will only make them colder to me than they already are, and I can't have that. I'd kill myself if I had to hang out with the other girls in my District.

That torments my mother. She wishes I wasn't such a tomboy. Every day when I come home she tries to trick me into playing with some of her old makeup or dresses. Her face gets a new wrinkle every time I tell her where she can shove them. She has my goody-toe shoes sister Chrysler for that. She doesn't need me too.

When we get to the apartment, Chrysler sits cross armed in front of the door, blocking our path inside. She may only be thirteen, but she looks years older than me. She wears a fancy white dress with beading and her hair is done up perfectly. She looks at me and my brother with hard eyes.

"Mom says you can't come inside until you've hosed off." Her nose wrinkles as she says it. "You guys smell. What did you do, go roll in the mud?"

"We had fun, Chrysler." I say rolling my eyes at her. "I know you might not recognize it, because the only thing you enjoy is organizing your hair ribbons."

Chrysler scowls. "Whatever Tyler. It's not my fault you don't know how to be a girl." She throws me a dirty look. "Don't come back upstairs until you don't smell anymore."

She stalks away from us and slams the door behind her. It shakes the frame and Romeo lets out a low sigh. "Do you have to act like that with her?"

"Chrysler is the one who started it," I remind me. "It's not my fault that she's got a stick shoved up her-"

Romeo holds up a hand to stop me. "She's still our sister."

"So? That only means I have to love her. I don't I have to like her."

"That's a little sick, Tyler."

"Don't care, it's true and don't act like you don't feel the same way."

We head downstairs where the hose lingers in the alley. We're the only ones who ever really use it. Romeo and I take turns hosing each other off and shake ourselves dry. When we get back to the apartment door, I can already here Chrysler's obnoxiously high-pitched voice pouring through the door.

"….and I told Lizzy yesterday that it doesn't matter if she takes tesserae this year, you know? She took it out last year too. She's already got a bunch of entries."

My mother leans across the counter and listens to her with wide eyes. She adores Chrysler and isn't shy that she's her favorite daughter. I don't really mind it. In fact, I wish she would focus all of her attention on Chrysler so she didn't have the time to bother me.

When my mother does look to me, she sighs. "You really shouldn't be playing out there with the boys," she lectures. "You want another broken bone? You already can't use your arm."

"The arm doesn't stop me from doing anything," I tell her. "I'm still twice as useful as Chrysler is, and she's got two good arms."

"Enough, Tyler," my mother says with an eye roll. She shoots an appreciative glance at my sister and then turns back to me.

"You're reaping dress is waiting on your bed," she tells me. "And don't even think about arguing with me about it. I've already hidden all of your other clothes. You'll get them back after the reaping."

I scowl and stalk off towards me bedroom. My mother knows me better than I thought. She knows I'd only wear a dress to this stupid thing if I have too. The dress is sitting on my bed just like she promises, and it's almost as vile as I thought it would be; light pink with puffy sleeves and a ribbon collar. I'd rather go stark naked to the square than wear this.

I toss my wet clothes onto my bed and grumble as I force myself into the hideous dress. My broken arm hurts as I force it through the sleeve, but my pride hurts worse. Once the boys see me in this, I'll never be allowed to join them again.

Once I button the dress, my arms sit just as useless at my side as it did before. I really can't move it without feeling pain. We can't afford to see the nice town doctor and even if we could, I know he'd tell me to sit for a few weeks and not rough house, something I refuse to do.

My mother fawns over me and the dress in the kitchen. She insists on putting two sparkly clips in my hair and I have to resist the urge to rip them off my head and stamp them under my feet.

Chrysler gives me such an amused expression I want to tell her exactly what I think of her stupid dress, but I think against it. Romeo is allowed to wear a plain dress shirt. I'd have killed to wear something like that, but my mother would never allow it.

The four of us are silent as we walk together to the reaping square. My mom keeps a tight hand on Chrysler's shoulder, and lets me walk ahead with my brother.

I keep a permanent grimace on my face all throughout the beginning of the reaping. I'm not invisible to the snickers of the other girls my age standing beside me. Even they know I look ridiculous like this. The second the reaping is over, I'm going to cover every inch of this dress in dirt and mud.

The escort this year is froufrou Capitol woman. She wears a long, silky lavender wig that perfectly matches the fitted dress she wears. I know Chrysler must adore what she's wearing. I think she looks just as ridiculous as Chrysler does.

The women announces herself and gives the same speech they always do. Nothing gets exciting until she draws the female tribute's name.

"Tyler Minroe!"

Suddenly, I don't care what I'm wearing. The idea that this stupid pink dress was ever bothering me, seems ridiculous. How could I be worried about what I was wearing? How was I not worried about being reaped?

They always say fight or flight kicks in the second tributes are dropped in the Games. Mine seems to kick in earlier, because I book it for the square's exit. I am not going to the Games. I will not be taken away to die.

The crowd gasps behind me as I run. They're not used to tributes running. It almost never happens anymore. They usually know it's useless. But I refuse to go down without a fight.

Peacekeepers have formed a line at the exit before I even reach it. I turn around to try and get past them, but there's more behind me now. They won't let me leave. The Capitol needs their tribute.

Two of the Peacekeeper's reach behind me and grab me under my arms. I scream and kick, and they forcibly try to drag me to the stage. I make it hard on them, kicking wildly and flailing as hard as I can, ignoring the fact that my right arm is useless and now in pain.

It takes a third Peacekeeper to get me on the stage. I'm fighting so hard they eventually have to press a gun to the back of my head. That stops me. I'm eighty percent sure they won't actually shoot me on live television in front of the entire country, but in the slim chance I'm wrong, I don't want Romeo and my mom to have to see that.

I wonder what they would do if they shot me? Reap another tribute? Choose some poor other girl to take my place?

At least I fought back. I'm going to die in the Games, but at least all of Panem will know that Tyler Minroe did not go down without a fight.

 **Lincoln Nash, 16, District Six:**

Technically speaking, no one's supposed to work on reaping day. It's Panem's most celebrated national holiday and we're supposed to be enjoying it. Most of the Capitol run businesses are shut down. All of the factories are strict about this. They're never open on reaping days. Most of the Peacekeepers who help run them are too excited to watch the District children get reaped.

But those of us who own our own businesses, have trouble closing down. We all need the money too much to do that.

My father's garage never closes. He firmly believes that your job isn't over until the job is finished. He's a hardworking and principled man, and he's taught me and my siblings to be the same way.

Two days ago, one of the Capitol guys dropped a broken hovercraft in the shop and all of my father's employees have been working non-stop to get it repaired as fast as possible. If we're not fast enough, the Capitol will bring it somewhere else next time. Transportation repair shops are a dime a dozen in District Six.

The other employees got a free pass today, but my brother, sister and I didn't. We'll get a break for the Reaping, but until the very last second, we have to help my father. My older brother Otto is on the ground beside me, working tirelessly on the engine suspended above us. We both want to get as much done as possible before the reaping.

"You're using the wrong wrench again, Lincoln," My sister's face appears beside me under the hovercraft. Her dark hair is loose and falling between us as she reaches forward to hand me a different wrench. It's the same dark hair we all have. It looks nice against our pallid complexions.

I chuckle. "Just because you're a year older doesn't mean you know everything, Jetta."

She laughs and shoves the wrench into my hand. "It has nothing to do with me being older than you, and everything to do with me being better with tools than you."

From beside me, Otto grumbles. A few lug nuts fall on the ground beside him and narrowly miss his face. "You think by now, you'd learn that Jetta is always right," he says.

Jetta crouches down beside us on the floor, her eyes scanning the engine above us. Her tiny, nimble hand reaches up and pulls out another loose screw. She gives me and Otto a triumphant smile as she places it on the ground. She's strangely good at noticing things like that. She's strangely good at everything we do here.

Every single one of us grew up every day in this garage, learning how to fix and build engines on trains and hovercrafts, but Jetta has taken to it better than either Otto or I ever could.

You'd never know it from looking at her. She's a tiny little thing who barely looks like she could carry a wrench, let alone use it.

Most of the other men in the District have trouble believing Jetta is as good as she is. They assume Otto and I must be covering for her. It's only because she's pretty. Men have a hard-enough time believing women can do what they can, especially when she's beautiful.

I give her a smirk. "You better be careful before you get a grease stain on your pretty reaping dress."

Jetta frowns and kicks me in the knee. "Shut up, Lincoln, or I'll make you wear one of my dresses."

Otto lets out a booming laugh and slides out from under the engine. "You never know, with those chicken legs Lincoln's got, he might look better in them than you do, Jetta."

"He's probably got bigger hips than I do too," she agrees.

This is my sibling's specialty. Jetta and Otto are always on the same wave length. It's like their minds are connected.

I frown and push my way out from under the car. Both of my siblings laugh again, and I can't help but smile. There's nothing in this world I care about more than them. There's rarely a moment when we aren't together. A 18, 17, and 16, our ages have kept us one another's best friends. Needless to say, we're very close. We've had to be after our mom. That kind of strain either unifies siblings, or tears them apart. I'm glad for our sake, it's the former.

"Come on, we better get home and check on you-know-who" Otto says with a sigh.

Jetta's face turns down into a tiny grimace, and Otto pats her head comfortingly. "It's alright."

Jetta always takes mom the hardest. I get to my feet and join them, offering Jetta a comforting squeeze on her arm.

"Fine," she says, still frowning. "Let's go check on dear old mom."

Our house is a little, blue wooden cabin across the street from the garage. We're lucky we live so close to the garage. It makes working long hours easier. When we get into the house, my father is cooking our lunch. We always eat the same rabbit stew on Reaping Day and it's making the entire house smell wonderful.

"There you guys are," he says when he sees us.

Jetta greets him warmly with a kiss on the cheek, and he pats both Otto and I on the shoulder.

"I was just about to go grab you kids," He adds, stirring the pot on the stove. " I don't want you late to the reaping. The last thing we need is a Peacekeeper coming around here."

Otto and I sigh. Jetta's face hardens immediately. We know what that means.

"Where is she?" Jetta asks coldly.

My father looks at her with pity. "In the living room."

Jetta frowns and stalks toward our tiny living room. Otto runs his hands over his face and takes a seat in front of my father.

I know I shouldn't but I follow Jetta into the living room anyway. I don't know why I do it. I knew exactly what would be waiting for me in there. It's the same scene every other day.

Sitting in her large armchair is our mother. Her eyes are wide and glassy, bulging out of her skull in a sick manner. Her skin is yellow and sagging from her bones. She's so thin and frail, it looks like one cough could kill her.

A cord is tied around her elbow and her left arm sticks out purposefully. I can see the fresh tract mark and the accompanying needle beside her. Once again, she's turned to the Morphling. She is an addict after all.

"Really?" Jetta demands picking up the needle and tossing it across the room. "Today of all days, don't you think we have enough to worry about?"

She doesn't seem to be aware of Jetta or I. She doesn't even look at us. If her chest weren't rising and falling in a rhythmic pattern, I'd think she was dead.

I place my hand carefully on my older sister's shoulder. "We don't have time for this. We can't be late."

Jetta nods. We collect Otto and leave the house together. It's my father's job to collect my mother and somehow get her to the reaping.

My mother's addiction weighs heavy on all of us. Almost every cent we make at the garage, she spends on morphling. We're the only people in all of District Six who own a business and are still in danger of starving most weeks. There's nothing much we can do about it. She's sick, and only the Capitol has the hospitals and clinics that could help her. We barely have money to eat. We can't afford to help her.

My siblings and I wish each other good luck quickly and then head to our respective sections in the square. We're all still a little shaken up from what happened with our mother.

The reaping is full of intrigue today. The female tribute tries to make a break for it, and the Peacekeepers have to physical drag her to the stage and keep a gun on her. It's a little impressive considering her arm seems to be broken. She managed to put up a fight one-handed. It's such a spectacle that by the time they come to reap the male tribute, everyone is anxious.

The escort reads out the name with a shaky voice.

"Lincoln Nash."

"NO!"

Jetta has screamed before I even have time to process what I heard. I see her leap from her section among the Seventeen-year old's and reach for me. Otto has to catch her by the waist to stop her.

I've been reaped.

I try to avoid looking at my siblings as I slowly climb the stage. One tear manages to roll down my cheek, but I wipe it quickly.

The second I stand on the stage, all I can see is my siblings. Jetta's collapsed on the ground, bawling, and Otto still has his arms around her, desperate to keep her from rushing forward. He is crying too.

When they call for volunteers I see his eyes widen and take a tiny step forward away from Jetta. He's going to try and take my place, I know it. He won't let his younger brother face this. He thinks it's his responsibility to take my place.

Before he can say anything, I immediately shake my head, as furiously as I can. Otto looks horrified but I keep doing it. He needs to stay here. He needs to help my father and be here for Jetta.

I was one who was reaped. This is my burden. Amazingly, he listens and doesn't volunteer.

They call out our names again and I stand beside the broken armed girl.

This doesn't have to be the worst thing in the world. If I win, I'd become rich. I could afford to get my help she needs.

If I win, I can save my family.


	9. District Seven Reaping

DISTRICT SEVEN REAPING:

 **Morgan Mak, 17, District Seven**

"Morgan! Breakfast is ready!" Momma's voice carries loudly through our wooden cabin.

"I'll be there in a minute," I call back, a smile plastered on my face. I can already smell her cooking from here. Papa's favorite muffins.

It's nice that we're all having breakfast together. Reaping Day can be so stressful for everyone in the District. We all need a little distraction, and nothing makes me happier or calmer than spending time with my family. I just need to make sure I'm ready first.

The mirror in my room is heavily cracked from when I dropped it, but I still have enough of an idea of what I look like through the shards. My reaping dress once was once of Momma's special celebration dresses, and it's the first year she's ever let me borrow it. It's long sleeved, peach lace and has a high neck. It's so pretty I never want to take it off. Just looking at it in the mirror makes me so much less stressed about the reaping.

I decided to try my best and look as nice as possible. I know how special this dress is and I want to make sure I look nice too. Momma told me not to wear any makeup, she thinks I don't need it. She always says I have angelic features. I don't know about that. I think I have small, features; a face like a plain jane. The most exciting thing about me is my blue eyes, and those come from Momma anyway. They even look better on her.

I decide to leave my hair down. The pale blonde looks pretty against the color of the dress, and I'm proud of how long it's grown.

When I'm sure I'm finished getting ready, I join my family in the kitchen. Momma and my two younger brothers, Birch and Brent are waiting for me at the kitchen table. A basket full of oversized muffins wait for us in the center of the table.

"You look very nice, Morgan" Birch says. I beam at him. He's only eight and Papa has already raised him to be quite the gentleman. That's one of the most important things to Momma and Papa. They always wanted my brothers and I to be very kind and considerate.

"Thank you, Birch. That's sweet." I tell him.

"Are you very nervous for today?" Brent asks. Fear is etched across his face. It's his first reaping today. I know how nervous he is.

I shake my head. "Not really, and you shouldn't be either. We will all be okay, I promise."

Brent seems to take comfort in my words and nods his tiny head. Birch reaches out to lay his head lovingly on Brent's arm and calms his older brother. Momma sighs happily. Nothing makes her happier than seeing her babies get along. She's very proud of how sweet the boys are.

A moment later, Papa strides into the house and takes his seat at the head of the table.

"I was just taking a second look at the wooden bench you made yesterday," he tells me. "You did an excellent job. You'll be running our business in no time."

"You did an excellent job teaching me," I tell him, proud he likes what I built. "and Brent helped make the legs."

"I did!" Brent agrees happily.

"Well then, both of you are very talented," Papa says rubbing Brent's head quickly.

Momma gives me a squeeze on the shoulder, and I can see she's pleased. Our furniture making business is very important to both of them. They want me and my brothers to take it over when we get old enough. It's the reason they opted to keep us out of the District schools. They preferred to teach us at home so we could learn how to chop tree's and make furniture all on our own. I first used an ax at age five, and by ten I could make an entire dining room chair set. Both Brent and Birch are learning the same way.

Some people in the District don't like to do it the way Momma and Papa do. They think it doesn't socialize children well to have them working so young, but it's never affected any of us negatively. We grew up close with our parents in a home full of love and learning.

It didn't hurt my social life, either. I met my two closest friends in the world, Hailey and Sarah when we were seven and I was out gathering wood to help my father make a stool. They liked that I knew how to make things. We used the wood we gathered that day to make matching wooden friendship cubes. Later that year we made our own dollhouse out of scrap wood. Every little girl in the District wanted to play with that dollhouse when we finished it. Our house was full of friends to play with. That was back when there was still three of us, and Sarah was still alive.

Each of us has at least three muffins. They're just as good as the last time Momma made them. I wish I could stay longer with them, but I really want to see Willow before the reaping.

When the knock comes on the door, I get up to answer it. It's Braxton, my father's apprentice, and my good friend. He's come to walk me to over to Sarah's parent's house. It's through the woods and sometimes people say they can hear wolves in there. I'm not supposed to walk there alone. Baxton offers me a toothy smile. He wears a cap over his sandy brown hair and he looks sharp. He is too old now to be reaped, but I see he still tried to look sharp for Reaping Day.

"Give Willow a kiss for me," Momma tells me.

"I will," I assure her and kiss the top of her head. I wave goodbye to my brothers and meet Baxton on the front porch.

"You ready?" he asks.

I close the door and nod. "Very. Thank you for doing this, I really want to see Willow before the Reaping. You know, just in case."

"Are you worried then?" Baxton asks as we start to walk. "About being reaped?"

I sigh. "A little. Yes. I know the chances are low but that doesn't help me feel better about it. I worry a lot for Brent too. He's so nervous, I wish I could take that away. He's too young to be all knotted up like that."

Baxton smiles at me. "Morgan, I think you might be the sweetest person I've ever known. Have I ever told you that?"

My face turns a little pink and I try to focus instead on the woods in front of me so Baxton can't see me blush.

"That might be a little bit of an exaggeration don't you think?" I joke quietly. "You've met a lot of people."

Baxton shakes his head. "None of them hold a candle to you. I'm sure of it. You're going to marry me someday, Morgan. You'll see."

I let out a tiny little laugh and Baxton's grin widens even further. Carefully, he intertwines his fingers with mine as we walk through the crowded forest. His fingers feel electric against mine and I can hardly hide my blush now.

I've cared for Baxton for years, and it was only weeks ago he told me he felt the same. It was shocking, and I was wary. After what happened to Sarah, I had reason to be, but Baxton doesn't seem to mind. He hasn't even tried to kiss me yet.

When we approach Sarah's parents' house, Baxton drops my hand to knock. Sarah's mom Hadley opens the door and ushers inside.

"Willows in the sitting room," she tells us. "Stay as long as you'd like."

I make my way to the sitting room and find the cherubic-faced baby sitting on the floor. She has a wooden spoon in one hand and she swings it around happily.

She smiles and claps when she sees me, and she looks so much like Sarah when she does that it scares me. I reach for her and lift her into my arms, glad to see her.

Willow is Sarah's daughter. A little over a year ago, Sarah met a boy on the other side of town. A few months later she was pregnant. She died giving birth to Willow.

I try to visit Willow as much as I can. I think it's important for her to know people who can tell her about Sarah. She only ever sees her grandparents. Hailey refuses to visit. She's still too furious that Sarah died. She wrongly blames Willow.

I don't agree with her. I watch Willow constantly for Sarah's parents. They both work and often need someone to look after her during the day. I don't mind, it's nice to be around her, like having a little piece of Sarah back with me.

Baxton sits with Sarah's father and waits while I play a few rounds of patty-cake with Willow and read her a story. When I finish, we walk to the reaping square.

"So, I was thinking after the reaping, if you want," Baxton falters, "I don't know. I was planning going back to your father's studio. Any chance you'd want to join me? We could have a picnic or something."

"I'd love to," I beam.

Baxton smiles, "Excellent. I'll come find you after the Reaping."

I'm flushed as I take my place in the sixteen-year old's section of the square. Hailey is there and she gives me a tiny little wave that I return immediately. I haven't seen much of her since Sarah died.

As I stand there all of my happiness from spending time with my family and Willow disappears. All I can think about as the escort takes the stage, is the Games.

I don't normally watch the Hunger Games. My parents don't make us watch anything that isn't a hundred percent mandatory by the Capitol. I can't handle all of the killing. It makes me too sad. My parents know this, and they also know I wouldn't fare well if reaped. They tried to limit my chances as much as possible by never me to take out tesserae. But that only does so much. My name is still in there 6 times, and that allowing gives me a horrible feeling.

I try to calm myself down but as the Reaping begins the horrible feeling begins to get worse. My heart races and I can feel my hands to start to get clammy. I don't know what's going on with me. I've never acted like this at a Reaping before.

"Morgan Mak!"

The sound of my name echoed over the entire District makes my knees go weak. This certainly explains why I was so nervous.

Somehow, I knew this was going to happen. I knew I would be the tribute. I knew I'd be going to the Hunger Games.

Tears roll down my face as I take the stage. The escort is friendly and steers me in the right direction, whispering congratulations in my ear. I don't listen to them. I try to wipe my tears so everyone doesn't see me crying, but I know it's too late.

I can't kill twenty-three people in an arena. I can't even kill one person. I have no chance at winning this. In one week's time, I will be dead. Just like Sarah.

 **Elm Halloway, 12, District Seven:**

One thing I don't often admit in front of other people, is that my family watches the Hunger Games religiously. Unlike most of the District, they don't suffer through it once a year, and then try to forget about it. My dad and older brothers think it's fun. It an actual Game to them. Every year they bet on tributes, get excited when their least favorites die bloody, and cheer at the final two. I think the Hunger Games is there favorite time of the year.

I don't like them. Not at all. They scare me.

Maybe it's because I'm not tall and strong like my brothers. All three of them are abnormally large and muscled. They're fighters. They know if one of them were reaped, they'd stand a decent chance. I would stand no chance.

I'm wiry and small, like my mom. I look young for my age too. My curly brown hair and wide cheeks make me look like I'm ten years old. The boys in my class love to make fun of me for it. I'm never invited to sit with them at lunch, or tag in the Forest on the weekends.

My brothers ignore me too. When we're not working in the forests cutting down trees for lumber, they pretend I don't exist. They hang out together and go fishing in the brooks or wrestle in the backyard. They never invite me to join them. They like to pretend I don't exist.

The only person in the whole world who every wants me around is Genie, my best friend. Genie and I met in school. People like to make fun of her too because she's so skinny.

Lots of people in District Seven are poor, but Genies family is especially challenged. She's the oldest of six kids, and her father died in an accident with an ax a few years ago. With that many mouths to feed, some of them have to go hungry. Genie is usually the one who goes without. Most days, her skin is stretched so tightly across her, I can see the outline of every single one of her bones. I hate that, and try to bring her food from home whenever I can.

Today, she waits for me at the edge of the forest, our meeting spot. She looks pretty today. Her wispy blonde hair is carefully arranged into two ponytails, and she wears a threadbare dress.

She looks even skinnier today than usual, and I'm suddenly glad I brought her some bread. Even though she must be starving and uncomfortable, she smiles when she sees me.

"I thought you were going to skip out on me," Genie smiles.

I shake my head. "I'd never do that, Genie. You're the only friend I've got."

Genie giggles. "Well, I'm a good one at least."

I take the bread out of my bag and hand it to her. It's one of the nicer sourdough ones my brothers bring home sometimes. Genies eyes widen in disbelief when she looks at it.

"I can't take that," she says immediately, shaking her head quickly. "That's too much."

"When's the last time you've eaten?" I press.

"It doesn't matter," Genie insists. "I can't take that."

I take the bread and crack it open so the smell can fill the air around her. I swear her eyes start to water.

"If you don't take it, I'm just going to hurl it into that forest over there.," I say.

Genie looks like she might not believe me, so I position the bread over my head and make it look like I'm going to throw it.

"Okay, okay," Genie says, relenting. "Give it to me."

Grinning with the pleasure of getting what I want, I hand the bread to her. She takes it from me gingerly and holds it up to her nose, inhaling it's scent. After a minute, she rips of a hearty piece and places it in her mouth.

I watch as her eyes seem to roll backward in her head and she goes for another piece. It's definitely been too long since she's eaten.

"Thank you, Elm." She says in between bites.

"Don't think on it," I tell her. "I'm happy to do it for you."

She finishes eating the bread slowly and when she does she looks at me carefully. "I'm afraid of what could happen today," she admits. "What if I'm reaped?"

It's both of our first reaping's, and all we've been able to talk about for weeks is how much it terrifies us. Neither one of us likes the Games, but we do enough to know that twelve-year olds die quickly in the arena. Everyone that's reaped, dies.

"I'm worried too," I admit. "But we'll be okay. We have to be."

Genie nods, and we sit together in silence until it's time to head down to the square.

So far, my first reaping has been terrifying. The female tribute has just been reaped, and it's Morgan Mak. I recognize her immediately from around town. Everyone likes Morgan. She's pretty and very sweet. I know she helps out around the District when she can. People call her an Angel because she's so nice, and well because she kind of looks like one. She's got delicate, soft features. Her head looks like it was made for halo.

Genie told me one time she built a playpen for one of her younger siblings and didn't charge them. That's just who Morgan is. I feel a pang of sadness as I realize someone as sweet as Morgan probably doesn't have what it takes to come home.

She cries when she gets to the stage, and I don't blame her. I'd cry too. I hope Morgan wins. If she doesn't, I hope she dies painlessly.

I release a tiny breath I've been holding onto since I got in the square. It's sick to think, but every ounce of me is just glad that Genie wasn't reaped. My friend is safe.

When they reap the boy tribute's name, I realize I shouldn't have let my breath out so easily.

The name they call out is mine.

I'm shaky as I make my way up to the stage. Morgan is wide-eyed and looking at me with a horrified expression. I wish she wouldn't. I'd rather see her look like she normally does.

"Any volunteers?" the Escort asks. She's obviously desperately hoping someone will volunteer for me. Even the Capitol people hate it when a twelve-year-old is reaped.

No one volunteers. All three of my brothers are eligible but none of them are willing to sacrifice themselves for me. They don't like me enough.

No one will save me from this. I am going to the Hunger Games.

At least it's me. It would be worse if it were Genie. No one will miss me except her.

My death will be just an uneventful as my life is.


	10. District Eight Reaping

DISTRICT EIGHT REAPING:

 **Velvet Wilkinson, 15, District Eight**

I didn't get any sleep last night. Not that I expected too.

The nightmares came early and kept me thrashing all night. They were just as surreal and terrifying as they usually are the night before Reaping Day. When I woke up, the palms of my hand had deep scratches from where my nails dug into them during the night. Both hands have dried blood from where the skin is pierced. It's not the first time this has happened, and I bandage them up like I always do. I can't but help but think how poor the timing of this injury is. Bandaged hands won't make me look any prettier on reaping day.

My mom is asleep in her armchair when I get dressed. I'm sure my nightmares and thrashing kept her up too, but she'd never mention it. She already feels too bad about them. She knows why they come, and that there's nothing to do to stop them. It's already too late for that.

Running is the only thing that calms me. I spend all of my free time jogging up and down the crowded streets of District Eight to clear my head. It's the reason for the lean muscles that line my legs. Ones that sometimes disappear whether or not we're going hungry that week.

If it hadn't been so late at night when the dreams started, I'd have laced up my shoes and gone for a jog. I'd do it now, if it weren't reaping day.

My reaping dress hangs over the back of one of our tiny wooden table chairs. Mom and I don't have a dresser or clothing rack in our tiny apartment. We keep what clothes we do have in tiny wicker baskets under our irons beds. But this dress, the one I made especially for reaping day, is too nice for that. I don't want it to get wrinkled. I spent too many hours and broke too many rules for it to look anything other than perfect.

It's white and made from the nice material we use in the factories to make peacekeeper's uniforms. I had to smuggle stray, 'unusable' chunks of fabric from the factory for weeks before I had enough to make it. Technically speaking, the Peacekeepers would consider what I'd done theft, but I don't. The fabric would have been thrown out anyway, they always have bins full of scraps that are cut wrong or too short, ones they ship back to the Capitol to be incinerated.

If the Capitol wants me to look pretty while watching someone chosen to be murdered, well then, they can't be angry I've taken their scrap fabric. It's not as though I could afford it otherwise.

The black fabric for the collar and the waist was made from some of my old clothes, one's so threadbare I couldn't wear them anymore. I slip the dress on carefully and make sure it fits okay and sits right. I'm a little thinner than the last time I took the measurements so it hangs a little too much on my shoulders, but still it's beautiful.

I comb through my hair quickly. It has long split ends that I haven't had the time or energy to deal with it. Carefully I take the fabric shears to it. Little chunks of fiery red hair to fall into my hand as I cut the bottom into a straight line. When I finish, it sits a few inches past my shoulders, perfectly straight.

We have some left over grainy bread from yesterday and I nibble on a piece of that, and leave the other half for my mom. After I finish eating, I pick up Tweed's dress from where I left it on the table the night before.

I'm actually impressed with how it turned it out. I took me months to sneak enough of the satin red fabric from the factories for it. We only use it when people in the Capitol custom order gowns and dress shirts. We had an excessive amount of orders this year, and I managed to sneak an entire yard and a half of it, piece by piece.

I spent days on it, meticulously hand stitching everything with one of my few rusty needles and leftover thread. Even the belt is handcrafted, made from purple ribbon scraps I collected over time.

Tweed doesn't know I've made it for her. She probably would have tried to stop me if she had known. She would have pressured me to sell it to one of the other girls in this District. This time of year, it's how I feed myself and my mom. Wealthier town girls and their mothers always buy my custom dresses around Reaping Day. The know I steal the fabric, but they don't seem to mind. If anyone ever came around asking where I got it, I'd lie. But no one ever does. That, I guess is the only thing I can thank my father for. Peacekeepers fear other Peacekeepers too, especially ruthless one's like him.

My mother yawns as she walks into our poorly lit kitchen. Her brown hair is piled messily into a bun that sits on the nape of her neck. She's wearing her favorite pajamas, the one's I've patched more times than I can count.

"Good morning, sweetheart." She brings me to hear and places a kiss on the top of my head.

"Morning Mom. I left some bread for you." I tell her. "That's all that's left until the market opens again tomorrow."

She shakes her head and gives me one of her wide smiles. "That's all right. We'll manage."

Her mangled right-hand hangs uselessly at her side, her remaining fingers are curled into a permeant, immobile claw shape It's the lingering reminder of the accident at the factory, the one that permanently disfigured her.

I still remember her screaming that day, even though it was more than seven years ago. Two of the other women from the factory had dragged her home, while she clutched her bloody hand and screamed. There had been a malfunction on one of the industrial sewing machines, and it had taken a chunk from her hand. There was nothing we could afford to do to fix it. One of the local doctors did his best cleaning it up, but that was it.

We had already been poor at the point, and with my mom's new injury she couldn't work. At only eight years old I was forced to take a job at the textile factory, or we couldn't eat. The people who ran the factory knew how desperate we were and took advantage. I only make a fraction of what the adults too. The meager salary from the textile factory and my secret illegal reaping dress earnings are how I feed my mom and me. Some weeks, it's enough. Some weeks, we're hungry. That's why I take out tesserae. The risk of the Games is worth not starving. I don't like to think about how many times my name is in that stupid bowl. It's the reason the nightmares don't go away.

I prepare my bag by the front door. In it, are two reaping dresses I made for Taffeta and Telmy Bryant. Their father is a wealthy merchant in the District, and the money I'm going to make from this sale should feed us for at least a few weeks. I plan on delivering them now.

"Is this the dress for Tweed?" My mother asks. She struggles to pick it up with only one good hand.

I nod. "Yeah, do you like it?"

My mother nods earnestly, a dreamy look on her face. "It's beautiful. You've outdone yourself."

"I'm going to drop it off at Tweed's and then deliver the Bryant girl's dresses. We should be able to afford a decent dinner after that."

"Thank you, Velvet." My mother runs her good hand through my hair and stops. "You cut your hair?" I nod. She lets out a loving sigh, "It looks lovely. It usually does. You're lucky you have your father's hair."

I stiffen immediately. "That's all I got from him," I say bitterly, "We certainly don't get anything else."

"Velvet," my mother says warningly and I know immediately to stop. There is no way I will win this argument. It doesn't matter what I say. My mother will always be enamored by the idea and memory of my father. What does it matter that he abandoned her while pregnant? Who cares that he let her carry the burden of a child alone? She ignores any of his faults, even though he never speaks to her.

I could probably live with it if I didn't have to see him constantly. He's a Peacekeeper and District Eight isn't very big. I see him constantly and he barely looks at me. He's always flirting with the young women of the district, the ones half his age, while his ex-fling and daughter starve to death before his very eyes. We cross path constantly, and we never acknowledge each other's existence. We are practically strangers.

"I should go," I tell my mom. "See you at the reaping."

She nods. I grab my bag and head out of the door. Tweed only lives two doors down. I knock twice on the door and her older brother Seam answers on the second knock.

"Hey Velvet. Tweed's inside," Seam opens the door and lets me in. He and Tweed look so much alike sometimes it scares me. They both have the same bronze hair and dark chocolate eyes.

"Thanks," I tell him, "I won't be long, I just have to drop something off."

"That doesn't matter. You know you're welcome to stay as long as you want," he says. I can see he's already dressed for the reaping.

Seam is seventeen, and works at the factory, hauling the giant crates full of supplies to the hovercrafts and trains. We see each other a lot at work, and sometimes if he has time to join me for a run, he will. His younger sister is my closest friend, and that has made us close too.

"What happened to your hands?" Seam asks gesturing to the white bandages across my palms.

"Annual Reaping Day nightmares," I sigh. "Not the best day to get them, If I get reaped, the audience will know I'm a stress case."

Seam knows me well, he knows my constant fear of being in the Games. He has similar fears. He and Tweed still have two working parents, so they don't have to worry about tesserae, but still their names are in there quite a lot.

Seam runs his thumb over one of the bandages and shakes his head. "I wouldn't worry about that. If you are reaped, and I don't think you will be, the audience will probably think you're tough. I'll tell everyone you kicked my ass."

"Thanks, I appreciate that," I tell him.

"Anything for you Velvet," Seam chuckles, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. I elbow him in the ribs.

Tweed hears us, and emerges from her room. She's still in her pajama's but her hair has already been styled carefully. She's only thirteen, but somehow, she's more mature than half the girls in our district. Poverty has taught her a lot about growing up, and I've never once noticed our age difference.

"I brought you something," I tell her excitedly and hold out her dress.

Her face falls immediately. "Velvet, you shouldn't have. You know I can't accept that."

I shake my head, "Yes you can. I'm not taking no for an answer."

"What if I refuse?" Tweed asks.

"You won't" I tell her with an eye roll. "It's way too pretty. You can't resist."

Tweed sighs, and her brown eyes crinkle. "Thank you, it's beautiful." She picks it up and twirls it around for a second.

"I have to drop off the other dresses for the Bryant girls, too" I tell her.

"Give me a minute to get dressed and I'll head out with you," Tweed says, and disappears into the other room. She emerges a minute later in the dress. It fits her like a glove.

"You're a genius," Tweed spins for me. "Come on. Let's go deliver the other dresses."

"I think I'll join you guys," Seam says quickly, and Tweed casts him an annoyed glance. "God, Seam. Get your own friends."

"Nope, I like yours better." He winks at me.

They say goodbye to their parents and the three of us head out of the apartment building and head for the Bryant's house. It's on the other side of the square and as we pass by, we see all of the festivities being set up for the reaping.

Tweed scans the crowd of citizens and peacekeepers and frowns. "Oh goody, look whose already here."

I follow her gaze and my eyes narrow when I see who she's talking about. Leaning against one of the light posts is a tall, broad-shouldered Peacekeeper, blatantly flirting with the short-skirted Capitol escort. It's Sean Wilkinson, my father.

I sigh, he couldn't deny our familial connection even if he wanted too. We have the same honey colored eyes, and freckles on our cheeks. Identical, full mouths. Our hair is the exact same shade of dark red, the only two people in the entire District with that color. They say it's because he's originally from District four, where that's more common. I wouldn't know, I've never spoken more than three words to him. He is the man who let us go hungry. Who abandoned his girlfriend after he found out she was pregnant.

He looks up and sees me watching him. His gaze lingers for only a moment before he turns back to the Capitol woman. What an asshole.

"Come on," Seam urges, "let's just go." He and Tweed both know how I feel about him and his neglect.

I listen and leave the square. I have enough to worry about with the Reaping. I don't need to worry about my absentee father too.

 **Junez Croster, 16, District Eight;**

I can't stand my brother.

I know that's a horrible thing to say and I should be ashamed, but I'm not. I don't care. Who says you have to love someone simply because you're related? My brother is a bad person, and I really hate him.

It's reaping day, arguably the worst day of the entire year to between the ages of twelve and eighteen in Panem. It's literally the day you could be sent to your own death. I think that should excuse me from any lip from my brother Rasta, but being who he is, he is he snapped at me the moment I got up. I had barely been up five minutes when Rasta demanded I bring all of our old wooden crates to the city square. The District needed more to line the reaping square and were offering everyone one coin for every pound people bring. Rasta and I have four, and he wants to bring them all myself. It doesn't matter to him that I'm nervous about the reaping, or that I wanted to go for a jog before it's starts. No, Rasta wanted me to bring the crates, so now I'm bringing the stupid crates. That's what happens when your parents get crushed by industrial sewing machines and leave you with only your brother for a guardian.

Rasta has too much power, and he abuses it. I can't count the number of times per week he hits me. I swear he'll smack me across the face for being five minutes late. If it weren't for my younger sister Loraine always watching, I'd hit him back. There was one time last fall, when I lost my part time job, that Rasta beat me so hard I could barely hide it at school. I had to lie and say a Peacekeeper saw me stealing, an offense that's punishable by public beating. After that, most people at school steered clear of me. They think I'm trouble.

It doesn't help that I look so different from them. My skin is darker than the rest of the districts, and my hair is darker too. Most of the people in Eight are so pale, you can almost see their veins.

When I was fifteen, Rasta shaved lines in my eyebrow in an effort to make me look tougher, and it worked. No one tries to hang around me anymore.

It's not just my looks that turn people off. I'm surly, moody and keep to myself. When I am out in the District, I'm usually looking for a way to get food. I do what I have to survive. If that means digging through other people's trash for dinner, I'll do it. That doesn't make people like me very much but I don't really care. Rasta spends all of his money on white liquor. Someone's got to feed Loraine and me.

Sometimes I wish my brother wasn't twenty-three. I wish he were still eligible for the Games. If anyone deserves to be reaped, it's him. Twenty-three tributes making his life hell for a change would be a good dose of Karma for him. I wonder how he would do with a beat-down.

I get dressed before I bring the crates. Loraine has just barely woken up and is rifling through the kitchen, trying to find something to eat for breakfast. There was an entire basket of apples yesterday, but Rasta probably traded them for more liquor. I'll have to see if I can scavenge something around the District after the reaping.

The square is full of Peacekeepers when I drop off the crates. One of them gives me a hard time and tells me the crates are in too poor of a condition to accept, and they only give me one coin for all four of them.

Rasta's going to be angry, but there's nothing I can do about it. I drop the coin in my pocket and decide to wait in the square for Reaping to start. I like to people watch. No one ever talks me in this stupid District, so watching them is the only way I ever learn anything about them.

There's a group of girls from my class at school who have just arrived in the square. They barely look at me when they pass. They're all pretty, town girls. The kind who have never once been hungry in their lives. The kind who never talk to me. The girls who don't really have to worry about going to the Games. Reaping Day is just an excuse to wear their pretty dresses and have some cake at home.

I wish I could afford to think like that. I've taken out tesserae every year and I know my name is in there more times than I can count. Odds are definitely not in my favor.

I hate the Games, always have. They're just an excuse to keep the poor people of the District hungry and punish all of us for things our ancestors did 59 years ago.

I don't know why they bother with the whole shebang of the Games anyway. Why make the people of the Districts fall in love with all of the tributes by parading them around and interviewing them, only to throw them into a death match a week later? It seems like a lot of trouble to me. They could make their point and save a lot of time by just rounding up twenty-four of us and taking us out immediately. But they'll never do that. They enjoy watching us murder each other too much. This is for their enjoyment.

Eventually the square starts to fill up and I take my place among my peers. I know being late won't serve me. The Capitol's escort this year is a pretty, young woman in a tight, short skirt. She makes a big show of the whole thing and it takes almost twenty minutes for her to pull out the name of the female tribute. When she reads it, she does it very slow and dramatic.

"Velvet Wilkinson!"

I recognize the name. Wilkinson, that's one of the Peacekeeper's here. The redhead. I know because he's beaten me loads of times for digging in the trash. A Peacekeeper's daughter's reaped? Interesting. Then I remember the scandal, the one that only the old people here talk about. Wilkinson knocked up some girl named Gingham and then left her and the kid to starve. It was a really big deal a few years ago.

The girl, Velvet, slowly climbs up onto the stage. I know her immediately from her fiery red hair and the freckles on her cheeks. She's pretty. I see her all the time at school and occasionally we'll pass each other when we're running. She's fast and can usually lap me. I've never spoken to her.

She wears a nice dress but she looks too skinny underneath it. Her mom had some kind of accident, I remember, and only she works. She must not be getting very much because it looks like the girl has skipped more than a few meals. Her cheeks are hollow and her arm looks like a tiny tree branch.

Standing on the stage, she's surprisingly calm for someone who's just been basically sentenced to die. Then again, she's definitely a tesserae kid. She must have known this was coming. Or feared it at least. There is definitely fear in her large, brown eyes. I see she has bandages on her hands and wonder if she's been in a fight. Maybe she's tougher than I'm giving her credit for. Suddenly, I hope she wins this thing. She's the kind of winner Panem needs. Someone who could actually benefit from the winnings. Not just another rich kid from District One.

I don't take my eyes off of Velvet. I'm so caught up watching her, I almost miss the male reaping.

"Junez Croster!"

Well, shit. I was so busy hoping Rasta could have a way to enter the Games, I didn't consider that there was a real possibility I would reaped. This is my karma, and I'm pissed.

I swear and complain the entire way I stomp up the stage. When I get close to the microphone, the escort has to pull it away from me so all of Panem can't hear my profanities.

I don't care one bit. If the Capitol wants to put me in a death match to kill me, they can hear my swearing.

From beside me, Velvet looks at me with her wide brown eyes. She looks terrified. I guess I do look scary to her. She probably thinks I'll kill her.

When the escort announces our names again, I turn to the audience and narrow my eyes. I want them and all of the rest of Panem to know exactly how pissed I am.

I am going to make the Capitol pay.


	11. District Nine Reaping

DISTRICT NINE REAPING:

 **Grain Garner, 16, District 9:**

I always try to do my best and look nice for reaping days. It's the only cause we have all year to clean up and dress nicely, even if it is for a morbid cause.

My parents hate reaping days. Neither of them would go to the square if it weren't mandatory, so they don't put much stalk in dressing nicely for it. Not that I blame them. My mother especially. It's out of solidarity for my aunt, Challah. It's a wonder she even makes it to the reaping after everything that happened.

Because of their apathy, It's me who has to make sure my brother Wheat and I are always clean and nicely dressed on Reaping Days. After all, if one of us has to go to the Capitol, I refuse to let the entirety of Panem think we're just dirty harvesters from District Nine. Even though that's exactly what we are.

There's not really much I can do to hide the signs that I've lived a life out in the fields. My face and arms are covered in hundreds of freckles from years of constant sun exposure. Only the harvesters have freckles here. The freckles and scars that line our faces and arms are a testament to just how much time we spend outside. I've spent almost every day of the last ten years in the fields, picking. My hands and fingers are so marked up in scratches and scars, I hardly notice them anymore. It would be stranger if they weren't there. My work defines who I've become on the inside, and you can see it on the outside now too.

Even my hair shows where I came from, long and messy like the rest of the Harvesters. For whatever the reason, that's the style here. We all wear it long. When we work, we have to keep it in braids. My hair especially is a part of my identity. They claim they named me Grain because I was born with so much, honey-colored hair. I think they named me Grain because they hoped someday I'd be proud of my District. That day hasn't come yet.

The dress I wear is borrowed from my neighbor, Freya. She's no longer eligible for the Games and gave all of her old reaping dresses to the poor girls in town. The girls like me, who if we didn't get hand me downs would be forced into wearing our picking clothes.

This one is old and pilly, but it's still nicer than anything else I own and I'm grateful. It's sleeveless and has a repeating pattern of tiny flowers. It drapes over me two sizes too big, and I excepted this much. Most things are too big for me. I'm small for my age, short and skinny from years of overwork and starvation. I'm not the only one. Most of us here are tiny except for the town kids like Freya.

Thoughts like this are what makes my family call me a pessimist. I don't think I'm a pessimist, I'm more of a realist. I know how this country works, and how I fit into the system. I'm a poor kid from District Nine, we either die in the Hunger Games or grow up, work and have more poor kids.

My friend Maize thinks we have other options. She thinks that the Hunger Games provide us with a unique opportunity. She claims theoretically, it can provide us poor kids with the chance of changing everything and becoming wealthy beyond our dreams. The only problem is, kids from District Nine never win. We die.

My family sits in the living room, surrounding my aunt Challah, whose overcome with tears. This usually happens to her on Reaping days. Her only son died in the Hunger Games five years ago and she never got over it. He was only thirteen, same age Wheat is now.

Wheat sits beside her now as she weeps, stroking her hand. He looks handsome in the shirt I left out for him. He's grown so much in the last year, he's starting to look a lot like Dad.

My mother looks up at me with hard eyes when I walk into the room. She surveys me carefully and I see how she sneers at the slight attempt I've made to look nice. She thinks I'm playing into the Games by dressing up, glorifying them even. But I'm not. I'm being realistic. I have a very good chance of being reaped, and so does Wheat.

I decide not to engage in the family grieving session. I barely knew my cousin before he was reaped. His death was sad but not devastating. I'd much rather not shake myself up before the Reaping by sitting around and crying over dead family members. I'm nervous enough already.

Wheat gets up from the couch and joins me, giving me a stare that is much too knowing and adult for his age. His brown eyes, the ones that match mine like a set, narrow.

"You're not staying," he says disapprovingly.

I shake my head. "I'm going to go meet Maize and head to the square."

"Aunt Challah thought you might want to stay and have lunch," Wheat says with a frown.

I wrinkle my nose. "I don't want to sit around this pity party, Wheat. It will just make me more nervous for later. And, Aunt Challah likes you better, anyway."

Wheat sighs, "Fine. I'll tell them you had to leave for an emergency with Maize. But you owe me one."

"That's why you're the best," I tell him and place a kiss on the top of his head.

I leave Wheat and the rest of my family and head straight for Maize's tiny cottage. It's only a short walk from my house, and while I make my way there I pass groups of other somber kids on their way to the town square.

When I get to maize's house, I smile. It's wooden and one summer when Maize's father was making a little extra money, they bought yellow paint and haphazardly painted the house. It's faded and splotchy now after all of these years, but it still makes me happy. It's one of the few things in this District that always brings a smile to my face.

Maize is sitting on the front steps of her house. Her long silky white hair has been done up into an intricate hairstyle and she stares dreamily off into the distance.

"Daydreaming again?" I ask her.

Maize turns her full attention to me and a small smiles crosses her face. "Just imagining what my life would be like if I grew up in the Capitol," she says.

"Ew, why?" I ask her.

Maize shrugs, "It wouldn't be all bad. We'd have grown up fed and we wouldn't have had to work since we were kids."

"But then we'd probably have green hair and silver skin and talk all funny," I remind her.

Maize stretches her long legs out in front of her. "I forgot how pessimistic you are."

"You mean you'd actually want green hair?"

Maize floats up effortlessly. "No. I don't think I'd want that. Maybe the Capitol isn't what I want. I think the life I'd like is probably more one of a victor."

Her words shake me on a level I can't explain.

"But to be a victor you have to win the Games." I remind her.

"So?" she asks. "It's worth it, don't you think?"

My answer is hard. "No. It's not worth it."

Maize frowns and straightens her dress. It's also one of Freya's, but a smaller one and it fits her better. Maize is even tinier than I am. We bonded in school because we were both poor kids who had to take out tesserae. Maize even more than me to cover her four younger sisters. No wonder the idea of winning the Games is appealing to her. She dreams for more than a poor life in District Nine. I have trouble thinking that way. Maize is so tiny and sweet, if she ever did end up in the Games, she'd be a hundred times more likely a victim of the cornucopia bloodbath than a victor. But I'd never say that to her. It would crush her, and it's not her fault that I think like this.

"So, what? You're telling me if you were reaped you wouldn't try and win?" Maize asks.

I sigh. "I didn't say that. I'm just saying it would be hard. It's not likely anyone from District Nine would win, and even if you did you'd have an entire lifetime of knowing you had to kill twenty-three people."

Maize frowns. "Still it would be worth it to be able to feed our families."

I shrug. "Yeah, maybe."

I guess this how the Capitol has managed to keep the Games going for fifty-nine years. The hope that however slim the chance, anyone can win and turn their lives around. It doesn't matter that you have only have a 1/24 chance of winning. A lifetime of riches cloud people's vision. But not me. I know what being reaped means.

And it isn't good.

 **Grant Blunt, 14, District Nine**

The girl in front of me is crying, bawling actually, and it's really getting on my nerves.

She's a poor kid, one of the ones who live in those tiny wooden houses on the outskirts of town. The ones that those families crowd all eighteen of their kids into. It's embarrassing for them, and so is the sack that this girl is wearing. The one she calls her reaping day dress.

Shoving her into the mud was a kindness on my part. The sloshy dirt really adds character to her dress. I did her favor.

But now she's bawling and it's starting to annoy me. Her sniffling and tear-wiping is so overly dramatic, it makes me want to shove her all over again.

"You're such a crybaby," I tell her and roll my eyes. It sends her into another fit of tears.

I leave her there crying and head back for my house, so I can change into actual, decent reaping clothes. My parents own a shop in town that makes decent money, so I always look nice for the reaping. Unlike the harvester kids here.

Reaping Day is always easy pickings for me. The kids of District Nine are so worried about the prospect of ending up in the Hunger Games that there guards are down and it makes them weak. Easy to manipulate. I normally have to work so much harder to make them cry.

My friend Teddy is even better than I am. He doesn't even have to shove or punch someone to upset them. He's good with his words. I've seen him make Seventeen-year old's so upset they've stomped away with tears. Teddy's tough like that.

People in the District avoid Teddy and I when they see us around. It's common knowledge around here that we're not too be messed with. The kids at school call us vicious, and the teachers think we're bullies because we always mess with our classmates. They always say it with the same disgruntled tone, thinking maybe somehow, we'll change. It's almost laughable. The idea of us changing. I like that the other kids in this district quiver with fear when we walk by. I like the power. It's fun.

My house is alive with noise when I get there. My parents have both just gotten home from the shop and are sitting in the kitchen talking earnestly about some customer who gave them a hard time. From the sounds of it, my mother ripped someone's throat out. That doesn't surprise me. My mother has impossible standards for people, and subsequently is always disappointed. I know that from firsthand experience. Nothing I've ever done in my fourteen years has ever been good enough to earn her approval, so eventually I stopped trying. It's easier to disappoint them both. It's more fun too.

"If you don't hurry up and get ready, you're going to be late to the reaping," my mother reminds me, her face stern and detached.

"I'm going now," I tell her coldly.

From beside her, my father throws me a sympathetic smile. Between the two of them, I've always preferred my father, but he's too quiet to combat my mom's harsh indifference to me.

I have my father's overly large squashy nose, but my mother's light brown hair. People tell me I look exactly like an even amount of both of them. Not one bit more of one than the other. That always bothers me. I wish I only looked my father, with absolutely no influence of my mother. That would make it easier to pretend we weren't related.

I stalk away to my room and quickly get dressed in the dress shirt and khaki pants I chose for the occasion. They're new, and nicer than most of my other clothes.

I guess if there's anything I can thank my parents for, it's the money. We're not rich, but we do okay. Well enough that I've never once had to even consider taking out tesserae. I think it's funny that some kids do. That their parents are so useless and stupid that their children have to risk a bloody death in the arena just to make sure they have enough to eat. How pathetic.

I always ridicule the poor, tesserae kids the most. Sure, their parents might like them better than mine do, but my parents have never let me risk death to eat. How much will the love of their parents really matter when they're dead?

I fix my hair gently in the mirror and then as a last-minute thought, I shove my slingshot into my pocket. Teddy and I love using it to pelt our classmates with rocks on their way to school. Today, with all of the kids in the reaping square it will make for a lot of perfect targets.

I make sure to grab a handful of heavy pebbles on my way to the square. Heavy ones, perfect for leaving bruises.

Teddy is sitting on a tree stump near the entrance to the square waiting for me. He grins when I approach.

"Look what I've brought," I say happily.

I dump the stones into his hand and take out of the slingshot with a smile.

"Excellent," Teddy says, "this is going to be fun."

I load one of the rocks into the slingshot and aim for Issa Mendelson, who happened to be walking by. I let the slingshot go and the pebble hits her right in the calf. She immediately reaches down and cries out. Her eyes dart around and when the zero in on and Teddy and I, she knows we've done it, but she's too afraid to confront us. Instead she keeps walking into the reaping square with tears in her eyes.

Teddy's eyes widen with delight. "Awesome, let me try!"

We spend almost an hour sitting at the entrance of the square, taking turns shooting pebbles at the passerby kids. We get one so close to Jimmy Nolan's eyes we almost think we're going to take it out, but we're not lucky. He walks away with nothing more than a red welt.

We only stop when the Reaping is about to begin. Teddy and I take our spots in the fourteen-year-old boy's section. All of the tesserae kids look terrified as the mayor and the Capitol escort begin. The boy on my other side, Kylorn Termy is almost in tears. I kick the back of his ankles. Teddy laughs.

When the girl tribute is reaped, it's a tesserae kid. Figures. Her name is Grain, and I snort. Grain from the Grain district? How original.

The girl is short and thin, with so many freckles all over her face there's no way to deny she's been working as a harvester her entire life. She's a total bloodbath for sure. This girl couldn't fight her way out of a cardboard box, let alone an arena. That's what happens when you take out tesserae, you end up in the arena. Even her dress is old and worn out. Poor, just like her. I've never been more glad I never had to take out tesserae.

When they reach for the boy's name, they take a long time. The escort leans close to the microphone and reads it out.

"Grant Blunt!"

Well, I wasn't expecting that.

Town kids are never reaped. Like almost never. Statistically, it's not common with so many kids in the District taking out tesserae. Some of them have their names in their hundreds of times. How, with all of those kids, did they manage to pick one of my three entries? It's completely unfair.

I can feel everyone's eyes on me now, and the cameras are now zooming in on me. I have seconds maybe to decide how I want to play this. I know the twenty-three other tributes will watch this later and immediately decide whether or not I'm a threat. This moment, right here is where my arena strategy begins. I know what I must do.

I burst into tears. Loud one's, sniffling and crying as I make my way to the stage. I know everyone in the district is baffled. Tough, mean-spirited Grant crying? Well, I don't care. I play it up, still bawling on the stage. I want the other tributes to think I'm weak and useless. That's my angle. I will get a low training score. I will look terrified. I will make them think I'm not a threat. They'll discredit me. They'll forget about me.

That will make it that much more satisfying to see their faces when I kill them later.


	12. District Ten Reaping

District Ten Reaping:

 **Crickett DeGraw, 17, District Ten:**

Reaping parties are the absolute worst. I don't know why we have one every year.

Actually, yes I do. My father is mayor. My mother is probably the second most known person in District 10. It's all about status, and flaunting the wealth we are so lucky to have, despite the fact that half of our District is starving.

Reaping days are special to the Capitol. My father likes to honor that by throwing an extravagant party every year in celebration. Of course, only the wealthier town families are invited. He never invites the poor families.

Our financial status hasn't changed once in the last ten years. We own the largest cattle ranches in the District. The Capitol always wants meat, so we never have to worry about losing any business from them. The annual party is our family's way of honoring the Capitol, their rules, and their continued business.

This year is no different. The backyard of our house has been done up in with balloon arches, ribbon and tables after tables of excellent food. There's even a cake.

At least thirty of the wealthiest families, district officials and Peacekeepers are crammed in every inch of our house, stuffing their faces with food and chatting happily about the upcoming reaping.

I see even the District Ten Capitol Escort, Bellamy, is her enjoying herself. Somehow, I can't help but think that isn't allowed by the rules of the Hunger Games, but if it isn't no one is saying anything.

I never know how to act at these parties. Everyone always wants to talk to me because I'm the mayor's daughter. I spend half the morning moving from person to person exchanging mindless chit chat and accepting good luck for the reaping, as if I'd need it anyway. I'd much rather go hang out in the corner with my friends, Tella and Romilyee, but I know that my parents won't allow it until after I've mingled properly.

My mother is wearing such an extravagant silver dress today it looks like she's going to attend a ball rather than a reaping later day. When she spots me, she flounces over to me and beams.

"Well, don't you look absolutely perfect today?" she says fixing the thin strap of the blue silk dress she had made for me. It's the exact same shade as my eyes. She had our housekeeper spend hours making it, and then had her spend another two hours carefully arranging my long dark hair into a half up style.

"I should," I tell her evenly. "You spent enough time and money on my outfit."

My mother purses her lips and gives an irritated shake of her head. "Honestly Crickett, please don't start. Just be grateful. You look beautiful. Why isn't that enough to keep you in a good mood."

She always goes on and on about how beauty should make me happy. As if I had anything to do with my perfect bone structure or bow lips.

I cross my arms. 'I'm not in a bad mood, I just want to get this whole thing over with. I have to leave for the reaping in a half hour and then there's the after party and everything. I'm just anxious to sit and relax."

My mother sighs again and waves me off with her hand. She holds her tiny hands over her eyes and I know my behavior is giving her a headache.

I stalk off towards the food, and find Romulus Thread waiting for me. I sigh. Of course, he's here. Because of course.

He's one of the Districts more popular Peacekeepers. He's only twenty, and traditionally handsome. Most of the girls in the District like him, but I find him repulsive. A fact that doesn't seem to keep him away from me.

"Well don't you look pretty in that blue dress?" he asks, a creepy smile stretching across his face.

"What do you want, Romulus?" I ask, growing more annoyed by the second.

He smiles and puts his plate of food down on the table. "You of course."

"When pigs fly" I snap.

Romulus rolls his eyes and picks up his plate of food again. "We'll see about that, Crickett. Your daddy has already told me how fond of me, he is. I doubt he'd mind me transferring to a job in the justice department. Then do you really think you'll have much of a choice in marrying me?"

"I'd rather marry a cattle rancher than you," I sneer, taking one of the Petite fours off of the desert table.

Romulus' eyes narrow in anger. His fist clenches and then he seems to calm down. His face turns into a wide smile again. It gives me shivers.

"Have fun at the reaping today, Crickett" he says evenly. "I hope your name gets chosen."

As unlikely as that prospect is, it still sends a surge of fear down my spine. Being reaped isn't something that people take likely. No one jokes about it, and they never threaten it. Romulus Thread is a specific kind of evil.

"I hope you get arrested for treason," I snap at him and stomp away.

Nobody else at the party has noticed me and Romulus' spat. They are all too engrossed in their conversations and lunches. I'm so furious, I almost barrel straight into Buck Yule.

"Careful there, Crickett," he says lightheartedly, catching me before I fall.

Buck looks so much like his younger brother Gael it almost floors me. I know Gael from school, we're in the same class. He and his brother have the same sharp cheekbones, piercing green eyes, and straight dark hair, though Buck's is quite short compared to the shoulder-length locks Gael is sporting now.

"Oh sorry, Buck. I was distracted," I tell him quickly.

Buck shakes his head, "Don't worry about it. No harm done," he chuckles, "By the way, thank your dad for inviting me today. The food is great."

"I will. I know he's glad you were able to come," I tell him, and for the first time today I actually mean it. My dad goes on and on about the Yules, all the time. Both Buck and his father Kleb work for him in the justice building and do an excellent job. They have a good reputation around our house. Something that kind of pleases me. I've always thought Gael was sort of attractive, in a rugged way. Maybe if he follows after his brother's footsteps, he'd be someone I'm allowed to marry. Although, I'd have to get Gael to acknowledge me first. He doesn't acknowledge any of the girls at school other than that Flora girl. A lot of people think they're dating, but I doubt it. Flora has short stringy hair and pallid skin. If that's Gael's type, he'd never be interested in me.

Buck waves me off and go to find my friends. Tella and Romilyee are waiting for me in the corner, snacking on frosted cookies.

"Took you long enough," Tella says when I join.

I sigh. "The work of the mayor's daughter is never done."

Romilyee grins. "Well I'd trade the duties for that dress you're wearing."

I spin a little and the dress flares up. Romilyee sighs at it.

"I saw Romulus Thread talking to you," Tella says with an arched brow.

I roll my eyes, "I hate Romulus. You know that."

The crowds around us start to thin a little, and I notice Bellamy has already left. The kids are age are starting to head out the door. It must be reaping time.

My mothers at my side a second a later, her perfectly painted nails digging into my shoulder.

"Come on girls," she squeaks excitedly, "reaping time!"

She says it so happily, it's easy to forget that two of the kids in the District will be chosen to die. But then I remember why she acts like that. It doesn't affect her. Neither she or my father ever had to take out tesserae. Their friends didn't. Mine didn't. I didn't. To us, the Hunger Games are just a Game, and she treats them like it.

In another week I'll be forced to endure the same people, and the same food for the Hunger Games viewing party. Then again for the victory tour.

And next year, it will start all over again.

 **Gael Yule, 17, District Ten:**

I'm dead on my feet today. Exhausted isn't a large enough word to describe how I feel. Getting up at the crack of dawn was hard but I had no choice. I had to work for a few hours today on the ranch in order to have a little extra money. Both my dad and brother work for the Justice Department, so they can't work today even if they wanted. They got invited to some snotty party at the Mayor's house. I can't believe they actually went. I find the DeGraw's massive house terrifying, and the idea of reaping party makes my stomach turn.

What kind of people willingly celebrate sacrificing two of their own Districts kids? I can't imagine the conversations going on in that room today; Nice cakes huh? Oh, never mind that two people are being selected to die today, you must try these cupcakes!

The ranch is beautiful today during the sunrise. I spend most of my time that I'm not in school in here. I ride one of the horses around for hours gathering the cattle. The ranch is owned by the DeGraw's too. They own everything in this District.

It takes me hours to get all of the cattle rounded up. When I'm about an hour from leaving, my favorite coworker Tristan shows up and we catch a little about the reaping. Tristan's too old to be reaped now, but his younger sisters aren't. He knows the terror of the Games first hand. He wishes me good luck and then takes over the ranch for me.

I jog most of the way home. On the way, I see our neighbor, Rita Murray. She waves excitedly as I pass and my stomach knots painfully. My best friend Flora told me last week that Rita has a small thing for me, and ever since then I've been avoiding her. I don't want her to come up to me and ask me about it, it would suck to have her reject someone as nice as her.

I'd have to lie too, and I hate lying. But the truth isn't really an option. Not now anyway.

I wish I wasn't a good-looking guy. I know that sounds over-confident, but it's true. If I was ugly, girls would never like me and then I'd never have to turn them down.

When I get home, my dad and brother are still at the DeGraws. Only my mother is home, sitting at the kitchen table. She lights up when she sees me and when she smiles like that, all of her former beauty shines through. Her dark hair is twisted into a long braid, and several of the pieces in the front are loose around her face. Her ruined leg is propped up on the chair beside her and I can tell from the frown lines on her face that it is paining her.

"Your leg hurt?" I ask her as I take the seat beside her.

She smiles, "Only when I breathe."

I sigh and take the seat beside her. "Flora should be here any minute with the medicine."

She frowns. "That stuff is too expensive, we shouldn't be wasting our money on it."

"It's not a waste. It makes you feel better," I tell her. "Any anyway. That's why I work so hard."

"You're an amazing kid, you know that?" My mother says softly. "I don't deserve you."

"You deserve more."

This has always been the relationship between my mother and I. She used to be a horse-trainer. One of the best in the District, until one of the horses crushed her leg. I was only twelve at the time, and because my dad and brother both work so much, I had to become her caretaker. That's how I met Flora. Her father's the town pharmacist and is the only who sold me the first vile of medicine.

There's a knock at the door and I see it's Flora, holding a fresh vial of medicine. Her hair is pulled into a messy ponytail and she looks flushed. She's wearing a reaping dress, which I know she hates and is probably contributing to her mood.

"Hi Gael, Hi Mrs. Yule," Flora says quickly. She hands her the vial of medicine to my mom and takes a seat on the counter.

"Hey Flower," I ruffle her hair and she gives me a dirty look. I smile at her anyway. Flora's my closest friend. We tell each other everything, including my biggest secret. Flora is the only person I've ever told I was gay. She told me she already knew. She could sense it, and it didn't matter to her. That's when I knew she and I would always be close.

My mom looks at the vial in her hands greedily and then downs the medicine. The effect is instantaneous and as soon as she's taken it she lets out a sigh of relief as the pain disappears.

"Better?" Flora asks hopefully.

My mom nods. "Yes. Thank you for bringing it over, Flora."

Flora shakes her head. "Don't worry about it. I wanted to get out of the house anyway. All my parents are talking about is the Games, and I'm sick of it."

"They just worry about you, that's all," my mom says.

Flora shrugs and starts to say something else but I'm no longer paying attention. My brother and Tallon stride through the door, still dressed nicely from the DeGraws party. My brother walks over to my mom and kisses the top of her head. Tallon looks to me and my heart skips three beats.

His hair is shorter than usual. He buzzed it two weeks ago and it makes him look even tougher than he did before. It compliments his sharp jaw and bright green eyes. He looks so handsome.

Tallon has been friends with my brother since they were little, and that's about how long I've been in love with him. It's been a silent, pining for years, but lately sometimes I think I see something when he looks me. I'm sure I'm imagining it, but every tiny part of me lights up when he's in a room.

"Hey Gael," Tallon says happily.

"Hey Tallon," I try to say his name as casually as I can. "How were the DeGraw's?"

"Boring as usual," Tallon says. "They all left for the reaping. Shouldn't you two be there?" He looks to Flora and me.

"Unfortunately," Flora complains.

"You should get going," my mom says trying to pull herself from her chair. "You two especially can't be late. The rest of us will meet you there in a few minutes."

Flora nods and plops down from the counter. I nod. Tallon gives me a smile and Flora has to practically drag me out of the house by my arm, an impressive feat considering I'm almost twice as tall as she is.

When the doors closed and we're a few hundred yards away, Flora turns to me and chuckles.

"As much as you want to stay and swoon all day, we have to go to the reaping," she teases.

I roll my eyes at her. "I was swooning."

"Sure, you weren't."

The reaping square is crowded with people and when Flora and I get there, we see kids crowding into their designated sections. The peacekeepers shove us forward and after a moment, Flora and I are separated.

She casts me a sad look as she goes and stands next to some of the other Seventeen-year-old girls. Reaping always suck because were separated by Gender, and Flora and I don't have any friend's other than each other.

The reaping goes quicker than usual. Mayor DeGraw makes his speech quick and so does the redheaded escort Bellamy. Neither one of them draws it out and it's only a few minutes before she sticks her hand into the reaping bowl and draws the females name.

"Crickett DeGraw!"

There's a collective gasp from the entire District that's so loud its almost deafening. Crickett DeGraw is the mayor's daughter. She's probably the richest and most powerful kid in the entire District. No tesserae, only seven entries. It's crazy.

Immediately the Mayor lets out a horrified cry and reaches for the microphone. He loudly and through tear-filled cries offers an obscene amount of money to anyone who volunteers in Crickett's place. This must be breaking some unwritten rule of the Hunger Games because Bellamy rips the microphone away from immediately and Peacekeeper's escort a terrified looking Crickett onto the stage.

I can't help but think if it were allowed it's not a bad offer. To a desperate enough kid, dying might be worth it if the mayor made sure his family got the money afterword. And the mayor would surely pay it, to keep his daughter alive.

Crickett looks terrified. She's prettier than I remembered. Her dark hair is smooth and full. Her face is delicate and angelic. But all of that is masked by the absolute horror on her face. She never thought she'd have to enter the arena. She isn't prepared. She's scared. I instantly feel bad for all of the things I've said about Crickett and her family. In the end, she's just as scared as anyone else whose reaped. She's even trembling.

The mayor is still crying and Peacekeepers have to hold him back to keep him from reaching for his daughter. It's almost hard to watch.

Bellamy looks horrified too and this has clearly never happened to her before. She reaches into the male tribute's bowl and picks another name.

"Gael Yule."

My initial thought after hearing my name ring out through the microphone is my mom. When I die in the arena there will be no one there to take care of her. She will be stuck in that chair all day until my brother and dad get off work. And they won't be able to afford her medicine without my extra income.

Then I remember Tallon. He'll never know how I feel. I'll never have the chance to tell him.

I climb the stairs slowly without looking at my family or Flora. If I do, it will surely break me. Instead I just stand silently beside Crickett. Her bright blue eyes dart to mine quickly and then look away.

A horrible thought occurs to me. One so dark it scares me. I always thought I was too weak to make it far in the Games, but looking at Crickett now, and she stares off sadly into the crowd I realize how much better suited I am for this than she is. If the other tributes are anywhere as weak as her, I'd stand a decent chance at taking them down.

The thought horrifies me and I banish it deeper in my head. I won't hurt anyone in that arena unless I have too. I won't be that person. I'm going to be me.


	13. District Eleven Reaping

DISTRICT ELEVEN REAPING:

 **Melody Twig, 15, District Eleven:**

My fingers can't stop shaking as I button up my dress. I have to try and button the top one for almost two minutes before my fingers will straighten up enough to do it properly. I really am trying to be calm, but it's proving more and more difficult after what I've just seen. After what happened to Bale.

If it happened to him, then it could happen to any of us. Any one of us could be as desperate as he was. Anyone could have made that mistake.

Yesterday, I would have never thought anything bad was going to happen. It was a normal day for most of us. We went to school for half of the day and then after that, we headed to the fields to pick a new crop of cabbage. The fall is usually when we do most of our major harvesting, but this year they decided to overplant the cabbage in order to keep the District somewhat fed during the summer. If everyone starved in June, there would be no one there to pick come October. Cabbage is a favorite of the capital because it's cheap, tasteless and lasts a long time. It isn't uncommon for them to give us a head and expect it to feed an entire family for an entire week. For families with one or two kids, it lasts longer. For kids from families like mine and Bale, with four or more kids, people go hungry.

I have four younger brothers. When we get a head of cabbage, Dad and I make sure they're the first ones to eat, and then we split one serving amongst ourselves. This is the only time I'm ever glad that Mama is dead. If we had a mother, it would only mean another mouth to feed.

My best friend Hymm was the one with me in the fields yesterday, when it happened. One second we were humming back and forth trying to come up with a new work song, and the next we were drowned out by Bale's bloodcurdling screams.

I'll never forget the sounds of them. Not as long as I live.

Bale was crumpled on the ground in the middle of two rows of cabbage, clutching an open gash across his face. The Peacekeeper loomed above him, clutching the whip and an armful of fresh Cabbage heads.

No one had to ask any questions, immediately we knew. Bale was trying to sneak some extra heads of Cabbage into his school bag, and the Peacekeeper had caught him. We knew better than to question a Peacekeeper but it didn't keep us from being horrified as we watched as the Peacekeeper slammed the whip and his baton on Bale over and over again, until he eventually passed out from the pain.

Different Peacekeeper's had to drag Bale's unconscious body from the fields, and everyone in the area got a good look at what had happened to him. There were more wounds then skin on him. I know stealing from the District is illegal but what they did to him still makes me shudder.

He's only thirteen after all. He's just doing what he can to feed his family.

I stop myself from these thoughts as I look in the mirror. Those kinds of thoughts get you beaten by Peacekeepers. It's not worth the risk.

Still, I can't shake the look of Bale's beaten, bruised body. Bale recently lost both of his parents to illness. He's all his sisters have. If it were just me and my brothers, I probably would have done the same thing.

There's a knock at my door and my head towards it immediately, bringing me from my thoughts of Bale.

"Come in!"

It's Hymm. She pokes her head into my room and smiles. "Hey Mel. Your dad let me in. I thought I'd come and make sure you're doing okay, after you know..yesterday."

Hymm looks beautiful, per usual. Her skin is a light caramel, a perfect combination of both of her parents, and her eyes a light green. In District Eleven, where most of us have muddy brown eyes and darker skin, she stands out like a sore thumb. She's easily one of the prettiest girls in this district and the giant wide smiles she always wears always keeps people interested in her.

I wouldn't consider myself ugly, but with Hymm around, no one ever pays much attention to me. There's just nothing interesting about the way I look. I have the same clear dark skin as most of the district, and the same brown eyes and thin mouth of my parents.

The only thing Hymm and I share in our appearance is our tight, curly hair. Though today, Hymm's has been intricately twisted a bunch of tiny braids.

That's what I'm looking at when she raises an eyebrow at me. Oh right, she wants to know how I'm doing.

"I'm okay, I guess," I shrug. "It's been a little hard to shake the image of the whole thing though."

Hymm nods. "I know what you mean. I'll never forget how Bale looked. So..broken." She shakes her head. "And it just doesn't seem right, you know? His family was hungry. He wasn't trying to hurt anyone."

My chest starts to tighten at the thought. I picture all of my brothers clamoring around me, hungry and whining. If I was that desperate, I'd definitely do what Bale did.

"Let's talk about something else," I say quickly, desperate to change the subject. "Why did you change your hair?"

Hymm gives me a strange look and I know she wants to keep talking about what happened to Bale, but graciously she skips over it.

She shrugs. "Because of the Reaping," she says nonchalantly. "I took out tesserae for the first this year. If I get reaped, I don't want to be worrying about my hair in the arena."

Hymm has two working parents and an older brother. While she's poor like the rest of the district, she's never actually been hungry. If she's taking out tesserae this year, things must be worse off for her than I thought.

"Oh," I say quietly. It does makes sense, but it's strange to hear coming out of Hymm's mouth. She's hates the Games. She never talks about them unless she has too, so to hear her talk so callously about being in them, is terrifying.

"Did you take some out too this year?" she asks. Her green eyes are wide and expectant as she waits for my answer, and I know she doesn't want to be alone in her fear.

I nod quickly to comfort her. "With four other kids to feed? Of course, I did. My Dad feels about it but there's not much to say. If I didn't do it again, we wouldn't all be able to eat."

"Are you in there more than ten times?" Hymm asks nervously. Her voice is barely above a whisper now.

I give a subtle nod and she intakes her breath. I hope she drops the subject. I don't like talking about how many times my name is the reaping bowl with anyone, even my dad. The fear of being reaped is already a constant fear without encouraging it anymore.

Hymm gives me a quick nod and moves to my hair. "Okay, you know what? I'm braiding yours too. We'll match."

"Okay," I say quietly, and Hymm sets to work on my hair. She chats away chipperly while she does it, but the implication of what she is doing is not lost on me and makes it hard to keep being happy.

Hymm braided her hair because taking out tesserae meant she had a larger chance than usual of being reaped. Hymm is braiding my hair because she honestly believes I will be reaped.

My own best friend is preparing me for my death.

 **Bale Tempin, 13, District Eleven:**

Today is reaping day. Wonderful.

Somehow, I feel like I should be allowed to skip out on this horrific, annual tradition, today of all days. I think I've given enough of my body and health to the Capitol, this week. I can barely move from the beatings I received yesterday.

Why doesn't the Capitol come back and check in with me next year? You know, if I haven't been starved or beaten to death that is. Next year, I can muster the fake enthusiasm that getting through the Reaping and the Games requires. But not today.

I've already almost had my life taken at the Capitol's hands. All I did was try and take two extra cabbage heads so the girls could eat a proper meal. And what did I get in return? A beating.

Yesterday, the Peacekeepers dumped my beaten body on the side of the street. I woke up a few hours later in a pile of old rotting, vegetable trash. I was so raw and bloody and I knew I couldn't go home. It would scare the girls. My oldest sister is ten, and hardly old enough to be helping me tend wounds like this. That's too much pressure for a kid. I wouldn't do that to her.

We're already pushing our luck by living alone. If the district found out my grandmother didn't actually live with us, they'd send the girls to some horrible group home. They'd still be hungry, but they'd probably be abused too. At least with me, they're not beaten.

Instead, I managed to limp my way to the District doctor. Helvy's a nice older woman who lives in town. She's the distant cousin of my mother, and you can tell. We have the same mocha colored skin and large eyes. I can never afford to actually go to her. But sometimes, she'll let me help her organize her supplies for some cough medicine for one of the girls. If anyone could help me then, I knew it would be her.

She surprised me with how much she helped me. She sent her teenage daughter, Amberley to watch my sisters for the night and treated my wounds free of charge. She couldn't use medicine or anything, but she cleaned and set the wounds enough that they wouldn't get infected.

I know enough about this District to know that she risked more than just wasting her time. Peacekeepers here are ruthless, especially about stealing food. The won't take well to Helvy helping me, if they find out.

It was in her living that I woke up this morning, just as sore and in pain as I was before. I bit my lip to keep from crying out as I rise from the small couch. My arms and legs both feel like they're made of lead and the simple gesture of rising sends shooting pain through them. Those are just the sore parts though. My lip is cut from the whip, and my right eye is swollen completely shut. But none of these things hurt as badly as my back. That's where most of the whips were aimed. I haven't looked at it yet, but it feels like bloody hamburger meat.

"Good morning, Bale," Helvy says. She's already dressed in nice, crisp clothes, reaping clothes. Great. That means its late already.

She places a plate down in front of me and gestures for me to eat. It's toast and cabbage. The cabbage almost makes me shudder, because of yesterday's event's, but I'm so desperately starved, I tear into it anyway.

"Thank you," I manage to tell her between bites. "For the food and for yesterday."

Helvy shakes her head. "Don't worry about it."

I finish off the bread and cabbage quickly, trying to eat it with some dignity. It's hard not swallow everything in two bites. This is the first food I've had in days. Helvy watches me in silence.

"Is Amberley still with the girls?" I ask, blushing a little.

Helvy nods. "Yes. She's preparing them for the reaping. I didn't think you'd want to see them until you were cleaned up."

"I don't want to scare em" I tell her.

"I figured as much."

I nod and take a sip from the glass of water she hands me. While I do, she hesitantly traces her fingertips across my swollen eye and sighs.

"In an ideal world, I'd recommend bed rest," Helvy sighs. "But I'm guessing if you don't show up for the reaping, there will be consequences."

"We don't live in an ideal world," I tell her grumpily. "I have to be at the reaping."

Everyone has to go to the reaping. Only people inches from death ever get out of it, and even then Peacekeepers still have to come and make sure that's the case. After yesterday, I could literally be dying and Peacekeepers would still drag me out of the house and into the square. I have no way of getting out of it.

Helvy sighs. "Well, if that's the case. I have some clean clothes here you can borrow." She gets up from the couch and disappears into the other room.

I take her up on her offer, borrowing some old clothes of her husbands. I don't have time to go home before the reaping, and showing up in my old, bloody working clothes won't earn me any extra brownie points from the Peacekeepers.

When I'm finally dressed, clean, and wincing in pain. I leave Helvy's. She offers to walk with me to the square to help, but I turn down this offer. Enough people will be staring at me already. I'm not going to drag Helvy into that too.

I'm right. As I walk through the District to the square, every single person stops and stares. Some of them know what happened yesterday, and some don't. District Eleven is huge and sometimes word takes a while before it gets through to everyone. The people who don't know what happened watch me anyway. It's still uncommon to see a District kid with this many bruises.

The square is already almost full when I get here. All of the other kids, and almost all of the adults are already here. The Peacekeepers are all over too and try not to attract any more attention from them, but I know they're watching me. My bruises are like their badges of honor.

They're not alone. Everyone is talking about me. My crime has lifted some of their fear and anxiety of the reaping from them. I can hear their gossip of every single person as I walk by; "That's the Tempin Boy, the one who stole." "That's what he gets for breaking the law." "They beat him good, huh?" They're not even subtle about it.

The other thirteen-year-old boys don't even look at me when I stand beside them. I guess I can't blame them. No one wants to be associated with someone the Peacekeepers hate. For the next few years in District Eleven, I will always be looked at like a thief.

Our Capitol escort is the same tired has been woman it's been for the last three years. Her hair is a violent shade of purple and she speaks in a too-fast, high voice. You can tell she's eager to blow through this reaping, and go back to the Capitol. Apparently District Eleven isn't nice enough for her to even stay for a few hours.

Our mayor gives a very, curt speech. When he finishes, the violet-haired woman draws the name of the female tribute.

"MELODY TWIG"

I don't know Melody by name. District Eleven is too big and had too many kids for me to know most of them. I get my first look at her when she ascends the stage, and she looks vaguely familiar. She probably works in the same fields as I do. She's not much older than me. Fifteen or Sixteen maybe. Her eyes are almond-shaped and brown. Her hair is long and expertly twisted. She looks like most of the girls I grew up with. She could be anyone; my neighbor, a classmate, one of my sisters in a few years. She is District Eleven, through and through.

She starts to cry when she gets on stage and the escort touches her shoulder in a way that's probably supposed to be comforting, but she's comes off weird. Melody wipes at her eyes and composes herself while the escort draws the male name.

"BALE TEMPIN."

Me. Figures.

There's an immediate reaction from the crowd. Some of it is shock. Some of it is grief. The Peacekeepers actually laugh. I stand frozen in the middle of the thirteen year olds, trying to ignore the deep stares of the people beside me.

A tall, broad-shouldered peacekeeper grabs me roughly by the arm and drags me along to the stage.

"I guess the punishment does sometimes fit the crime, huh?" he whispers to me. Then he laughs.

It is ironic. I steal from Panem, and now I will die for Panem.

Being reaped is not the worst thing to happen to me, but it is the worst thing to happen to my sisters. Without me, they will end up in a group home. Without me, they'll starve and die.

I should try and win for them. If I did, they'd live a life in Victor's Village and always be taken care of. Problem is, I'm already too disadvantage to win this thing. Tributes from District Eleven always have it hard enough, and I'm already beaten pretty badly.

When I get on the stage, I can see the horror on both the mayor and the escort's face. I must look truly gruesome. The people of the Capitol will be horrified. Great.

The world has a sick sense of humor. I stole the cabbage to keep my sisters alive, and now without me, they'll die anyway. That's good old Panem for ya.

I was worried thief would be the worst thing I was ever called. Now I realize the worst thing I'll ever be called, is tribute.


	14. District Twelve Reaping

Authors Note: AHHH! We've reached the final reaping! I'm so excited to begin the Games with you guys and I'll be updating a little more frequently now that the reaping are done. So get ready!

 **District Twelve Reaping:**

 **Cinder Mooreton, 16, District Twelve**

"Maybe I could pix-ax someone to death," Hexar whispers, running his fingers slowly down my arm. "What do you think the chances are of getting a pix-ax in the arena?"

I want to sigh at his words. The moment was so blissfully perfect a moment ago. The grass we were laying on was soft and downy. The sky above us was a clear shining blue with thick, fluffy clouds. My eyes were closed and I could smell him perfectly, his familiar sent of ash and tree bark. All I could feel was the warm skin of his forearm on mine. And he had to go and ruin it with talk of the Hunger Games.

I look up from my heavy lashes to give him a stern look. "I don't know. But it doesn't matter. You are not getting reaped today."

Hexar sighs too, and his entire chest crashes down an inch as he does. "You and I both know it's a possibility, Cinder. We should prepare ourselves."

I roll over onto my stomach so I can look at him while I talk. "I don't want too. You're ruining our perfect morning."

It had been perfect only moments ago. Things like this are the only reason I don't hate Reaping Days. Sure, it's a systematic annual lottery that tries to pit us against twenty-three other kids in a fight that will surely end in our short, gruesome deaths, but it's nice to have at least one day during the year that nobody has to work.

"My name is in there an awful lot," Hexar reminds me. He's frowning now, and his bushy black eyebrows are furrowed in frustration. I trace one with my fore-finger.

"So?" I ask. "A lot of other people took out tesserae too. Me, included. It doesn't have to be you."

Hexar frowns. "I don't know. I just have a really bad feeling about this."

I shake my head furiously. "I don't. You're going to be fine. We didn't go through two whole years of you flirting with me in school for you to die in an arena."

Hexar cracks a wide grin. "Well, when you put it like that." He reaches down to place a deep kiss on the end of my nose.

"And anyway," I tell him. "I'm a hundred times better with the Pick-ax then you are. I practically run circles around you in the mines."

"Lies," he whispers in my ear.

He runs one of his hands through my big bushy brown hair, and smiles. I know he loves my hair. While most of the District has similar inky, straight locks, my voluminous mane tends to stick out a bit. To me, it's familiar. My mom and sisters have the same hair. Even my brother does. But were some of the only ones, and I know it's one of Hexar's favorite thing about me.

I stretch forward and kiss him deeper, trying to make sure he understands just how serious I am, and how much he means to me with the simple gesture.

When we break apart, I groan. "If we don't leave now, neither of us will have enough time to get ready for the reaping."

Hexar grins. "So? I'll go like this."

"With coal dust under your finger nails and in a dirty t-shirt?"

"It won't matter much what I'm wearing when I'm reaped."

I give him a hard shove in the shoulder. "You're not going to be reaped!"

Hexar chuckles and gets to his feet, pulling me with him. I frown but follow his lead down towards our houses. I do have to get ready to for the Reaping. My parents will kill me if I'm late because of Hexar. They like him as much as parents are expected to like their daughter's boyfriend whose two years older. But they constantly remind me how I spend too much with him. Personally, I think their dislike stems from the fact that his family is much poorer than ours. Hexar takes out tesserae for himself, younger brother and both of his disabled parents. My siblings and I don't have to take out tesserae. We all work part time in the mine, and both of our parents are still employed. I think my parents want me to end up with someone a little better off then Hexar. Something I think is gross.

Hexar lingers when we get to my little wooden, white house. He senses my parent's indifference to him and tries to spend as little time here as he can. Not that I blame him.

"See you at the reaping?" he asks, dropping my hand.

I smile and place a kiss on his cheek. "In clean clothes," I remind him.

Hexar rolls his eyes dramatically, "Fine. But I make no promises that I won't still have coal dust under my nails."

He darts down the street before I can say anything else, and I shake my head as I make way into the house. My heart is still racing when I enter the living room. It always does when I'm with Hexar. Young love and all that.

"Cutting it kinda close, don't you think?" My brother asks from one of the wooden chairs. He's sitting in the living room and I almost didn't notice him. He rocks back and forth on one of the chairs legs, a slice of bread in his hand. I see his hair is combed and he's wearing a clean shirt. Mom must have already made him get ready for the reaping.

"You know me, Blaze" I tell him, ripping myself a piece of bread from his slice. "I like to live dangerously."

"That was my bread," Blaze reminds me, simply, one eyebrow raised.

I grin. "I thought twins were supposed to share?"

Blaze rolls his eyes. "The only thing I'm required to share with you is my genetic material. Isn't that enough?"

I catch the end of his chair before it slams to the ground. "Nah, I want the bread too."

Blaze shakes his head and tears me off another piece of bread. "I'd go get ready if I were you. Sister 1 and 2 are almost done and mom and dad are going to be anxious to leave."

"I'll get right on that," I say and practically skip towards me bedroom.

I share my bedroom with both of my sisters, Pyre and Ember. They're both still getting ready when I enter the room. They're hair is expertly styled, their dresses are already ironed and on, and they've even lined their eyes with coal. They look ready to walk straight into the Capitol.

"You guys are really pulling out the stops this year, huh?" I ask, taking my only dress out of the dresser.

Ember shrugs and plays with the end of her ponytail. "It's my last eligible year, Cin. I'll be right up front for the Cameras. I have to make sure I look good."

"Right," I say with an eye roll, slipping on the simple cotton dress that used to belong to Pyre.

Both Ember and Pyre have always been a little more concerned with their looks than me. Then again, they're also prettier. They look like mom. Blaze and I look like Dad. Sometimes Ember even jokes that my face looks better on Blaze. I usually roll my eyes at that. Hexar seems to like my face just fine.

"I used to love that one," Pyre tells me as she floats past me, her hips sashaying dramatically as she does. "It looks good on you too."

Pyre is only 10 months older than me, but it looks like she's years older. She's got a figure that makes her look twenty-two rather than seventeen. It's probably the reason that she can't even go to the town square without the Peacekeepers trailing after her. Both her and Ember are so pristine and clean all of the time, it's a wonder they even work in the mines at all. I guess being fed is a good motivator, even for them. I actually like the mines, but I don't mind dirt.

Ember and Pyre linger at the food of our bed, hovering while I dress and brush my hair. They're anxious to leave, so the moment I've slipped on my shoes, were out the door with blaze.

Ember and Pyre walk a little ahead, talking in quick earnest voices and waving at passing by peacekeepers and District officials. I walk slowly with Blaze. We've always been closer, probably because were twins, but also because neither of us ever have any idea what to talk to Ember and Pyre about.

"Nervous?" Blaze asks as we approach the town square.

I shake my head. "You?"

"Not really. Our names aren't in there that often. The tesserae kids have it way worse. It's usually one of them."

My stomach knots at the thought of Hexar and how often his name is in the bowl. He's about as much a tesserae kid as you can be. Odds really aren't in his favor. I wish my brother good luck and disappear amongst the other girls my age.

I can see my sisters up ahead of me, talking between their sections and throwing anxious looks at the stage. I see my brother too, talking to one of his school friends. A little ahead of him, I see Hexar. He's staring at me too. I flash him the widest smile I can muster and he pretends to be shot in the heart. I mostly keep my eyes on him while the reaping begins. As much as I hate to admit it, all of his talking this morning about being reaped and Blaze's reminder about tesserae kids, has made me really worried for him. I don't know what I would do if he were reaped. I couldn't handle it. I'm staring at him, when they call the female tributes name. Making sure I absorb every inch of his face is more important to me than hearing which poor tesserae girl has been chosen for this year's Games. I don't even like the Games.

"Cinder Mooreton!"

It's takes me a full thirty seconds to recognize my own last name, and other fifteen to realize she said Cinder. It's not a tesserae girl. It's a Mooreton. One of the non-tesserae hardworking, Mooreton girls. And not one of the older ones, it's me.

I watch as Hexar's face turns white with dread. His beautiful face is so disrupted by the pain, I wish he would just smile instead. A smile might make it easier for me to move. His mouth hangs open and I realize he's shocked. With all that energy, we both spent worrying about whether he was reaped, we never took the time to worry about if I would be.

I'm shaking as I take the stage. The escort seems to be able to tell. When he calls for female volunteers, I look sheepishly to my older sisters, maybe out of habit. Neither of them are looking at me. They're looking at the ground. They stay silent.

In the boy's section, Blaze is horrified and staring daggers at them both. I know he's disappointed in them for not taking my place. He's my twin, I know he would if he could, but I can't expect the same from Ember and Pyre. It's not as if either one of them is more qualified or skilled then me. We all know the same thing.

Whichever Mooreton girl enters the arena, comes home in a coffin. This time around, it will be me.

I guess I better hope they put a pick-ax in the arena.

 **Shiloh Bellows, 14, District Twelve:**

I got a stain on my shirt.

Any other day of the year, a stain wouldn't be that big of a deal. But on Reaping Day, it is a very big deal. People already think District Twelve is the laughing stock of Panem. It's probably the poorest district in the whole country. I don't like the idea of furthering that idea by showing up to the reaping in a stained shirt, but I don't have much of a choice. Everything else I own is dirty, torn or too small.

The butter stain was my own fault I guess. I was trying to do to many things at once. I thought it might nice for once to toast the bread over the fire, but there were too many pieces and I was having trouble keeping them all straight.

I always get stressed out on mornings when I have to cook breakfast for the whole family. There's a lot of us to feed, and I only have two hands. I shake my head. No that's ungrateful. I should just be happy we have enough to eat at all. I'm lucky the tesserae worked out this year. I came home with wagons full of grain and oil yesterday. We should be able to eat for at least a little while. Even if it takes hours every morning to prepare.

There are just too many people living in our tiny shack. Two Aunts, Three uncles, seven cousins, three grandparents, and two parents, all in two and a half rooms. It used to make me uncomfortable, having this many people crowded into the house, sleeping on rugs and corners of rooms, but now I've grown used to it. It's how a lot of people live in twelve. We've all got too much family and not enough money.

Sometimes it can feel a little crowded, but I also never have to worry about having someone to talk too. I'd take that over anything else. My family is the most important thing in the world to me. I'd do anything for them.

My aunts and mom are already up and out of the house, returning some of the merchant's clean laundry. My Dad and Uncles have left too, no doubt seeing if they can trade anything for some last-minute additions to our reaping dinner. They always try to make it at least a little special for us.

Only my grandparents and my cousins are in the house now, but it's still loud and crowded. My grandparents are too old and disabled to help with the cooking, and the kids are too small. Only two of them are even old enough for the reaping, so it's rare I get any help from them. Not that I mind much. I like making sure my family is taken care of. It's what I'm good at.

My oldest cousin, Telson stands across from me in the kitchen now, trying desperately to make mint tea from the leaves my dad and I gathered yesterday.

"These smell really good, Shiloh," he says leaning into the bowl of them, sniffing deeply.

"They taste even better," I tell him, putting the sixth piece of toast on the plate. "Chew one."

Telson eyes the green leaf with a strange confusion and then hesitantly places one in his mouth. He smiles when he starts to chew.

"They are good!" he exclaims. "How did you know?"

"My dad told me."

Telson frowns and continues adding the leaves to the hot water. "I wish Uncle Rudy would take me out to the woods too. You know so much about plants already. I want to learn too."

My face tenses. The idea of tiny Telson sneaking out of the fence of District Twelve terrifies me. My father and I do it all the time, to scavenge the woods for plants we know are edible. With this many mouths to feed, we have no choice. It's definitely paid off. Between the two of us, we can recognize almost every edible and inedible plant in the entire forest, but that doesn't mean we don't know how dangerous what we do it. It may be necessary, but it's still a crime. We could be arrested for sneaking into the forest. There's no way I'd subject Telson to that. My father wouldn't even bring me if it weren't for his injured leg. He can't make it too far into the forest without using me as crutch.

"I don't think that's such a good idea," I say quietly, flipping another piece of bread. "It is still illegal."

"But you do it," Telson presses.

"Well someone has to or we wouldn't eat," I say sternly. Telson's face falls and I know I've upset him.

"I'm not saying it's right, ok? Just necessary. But I don't need you out there risking your life. It's better you only worry about school," I tell him.

"Yeah, whatever." Telson is unconvinced. He still thinks what we do in the woods is glamourous. Fun. He doesn't understand it's a risk, and that's it's about nothing more than survival.

When I finish toasting the last piece of bread, I realize it will barely feed just the kids. If the rest of us plan on eating anything else today, I'll have to head to the woods. It does make me a little nervous to do it on Reaping Day. There surely will be more Peacekeepers here than usual, and more officials too, but I don't have much of a choice. My family needs to eat. I'll just have to be careful.

I turn to Telson, "Can you feed the kids? I've got to run an errand."

"An errand?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "On reaping day?"

"Yeah a small one. I'll meet you at the reaping, okay?"

"Oh-Kay."

I stop by the front door and lace my ancient old boots. They're almost completely worn through at this point, but I'm hoping they last longer. Everyone in the house is down to their last pair and if these go, I'll be walking around barefoot.

I quietly sulk through the dirt streets of the outskirts of our district. We live in the Seam, the poorest part of the District and closest to the mines. It's not far from here to the forest. I keep my head down as I walk anyway, trying not to attract any more attention to myself then necessary. Occasionally someone will wave, or smile at me. I try to be nice to everyone in the District, regardless of whether they're from the Seam or the Town, and people seem to respond well to my demeanor. Of course, it might also be how I look.

I look so different from most of the people here. Especially in the Seam. Everyone here looks the same; dark hair, grey eyes, olivey skin. In the merchant side of town, they're fairer and their hair is light. I don't look anything like that.

My fathers from District Eleven originally, and possess a darker skin color. He moved here to become a Peacekeeper, but had to stop after he injured his leg. My mom's from the Seam and her skin was already pretty tanned to begin with. It left me with a dark, mixed skin tone, very different from the rest of the people here.

When I get to the tiny hole in the fence, I wait until I'm sure no one is watching before I duck down beneath it and dart into the forest.

It's dead quiet here, and I immediately set to work. First, I gather the edible grasses and flowers that litter the edge of the forest. These don't taste the best but there all over the crowded forest, and make a good base for stews. It's deeper in the forest that I find the better stuff, the things like berries and apples, but it's too risky to go that far today. I still have to make it back before the reaping begins.

Instead I go just a little deeper, where I find it's full of plentiful roots and nuts. I load up on them, stuffing my jacket pockets until they're full. This should be enough to feed me and the other adults for today at least. Tomorrow, I'll have to come back with dad.

As I head back for the fence, I stop abruptly. I can hear laughter. On this side of the fence. My knees lock in fear as I realize it could be Peacekeepers. Immediately I dart behind one of bushes and wait, until the other people come into view.

They're giggling when I see them, and immediately I realize it's not Peacekeepers. It's girls.

There's two of them, dresses in clean pants and jackets. From the look of them, they're both a little older than me, maybe sixteen or seventeen.

The one in front is the one giggling. She's fair-skinned and her light blonde hair is pulled into a high ponytail on the top of her head. In one hand is a thin knife, and in the other is a dead rabbit. The other girl also has a knife, and one fat squirrel. The blond hands her weapon and squirrel to the brunette friend, and she shoves them both into a big canvas bag. I watch as they stash their knives under some tree roots and dive under the fence with their game bag. My jaw hangs open.

Poaching. They're poaching. It's brazen to even have a weapon in District twelve, but to poach? They could beaten by Peacekeepers. They could be killed! I thought the gathering I did was risky, but what they did? It's crazy. Still, it's kind of impressive they were even able to catch something. They must be awfully good with those knives. That's exactly the kind of tribute they look for when doing the Reapings.

I don't like the Games much. I think the odds are far too stacked against us. But I can't help thinking that if District Twelve were ever to have another winner besides Haymitch Abernathy, than one of these girls would have to be reaped.

as I slip out from under the fence, and head for the square. I don't have enough time to stop home before the reaping, so I'll have to go with my jacket full of roots and plants. As I make my way through the crowds and find myself in the square, I'm still thinking about those girls. Maybe they should volunteer for the Games. They probably have a decent chance of winning. It's almost worth the risk for the prize money. I bet they could feed their families forever if they won. I'd do that.

When I take my spot in the fourteen-year-old section, I find myself thinking if I was as skilled as those girls were, I'd definitely volunteer to help my family.

I keep my eyes out for them as I wait for the reaping to begin. They're almost late. They both dart into the Seventeen-year-old section at the last minute, both looking frazzled in clean reaping dresses. I don't take my eyes off of them while the reaping starts.

When they call for the female tribute, I actually find myself hoping it's one of them. It might nice for District Twelve to have someone to root for this year. If they won, we'd even get Parcel Day.

They pull the name, and it isn't one of the girls from the forest. It's some town mining girl with big hair. I'm actually a little disappointed. This girl doesn't look like a contender at all. The other girls had a decent chance at least.

Feebly, I look away from the hunting girls and pay attention to the reaping again. They reach for the boy's name and I silently hope it isn't Telson. They call the name out loud, and it isn't Telson.

"Shiloh Bellows!"

It's me.

And in a matter of seconds, my mood immediately changes. A few minutes ago, I was excited for the 59th Hunger Games. Now, I'm terrified.

There won't be any Parcel Day's in District Twelve this year.

District Twelve has no contenders, only tributes.


	15. I can do this

**A/N: Hi guys! So every so often, in between the other chapters, there will be a chapter from the Head Gamemaker's perspective. Hope you like it and dont forget to review!**

 **Reaping Day: Capitol**

 **Waverly Tuffington, 27, Head Gamemaker, Capitol**

Reaping Day is arguably the most important day of my entire life. Definitely of my Career. Today marks the first day of the month-long Games I've spent the better part of a year planning. However today turns out will determine whether or not I get to keep my job for next year. Of course the result of the Games is important too, but as any Head Gamemaker knows, that can't happen without a successful reaping.

What makes a successful reaping is hard to define, and different to each Head Gamemaker. For me, the perfect reaping has three things; entertainment, shocking tributes, and the perfect amount of corruption. I've made sure to engineer all three into today's.

When I walk to the tribute center, I can see and feel the Capitols excitement about the Games. It's palpable. Most people are already at home anxiously awaiting the start of the Reaping. They'll no doubt have friends over, with extensive food spreads and spirits. Children will stay home from school. No one will work, except for the Peacekeepers and Gamemakers. For us, this is the most important day of work we'll have.

Just outside of the center, I notice the booths. They've popped up almost immediately overnight. Men and women anxiously unpacking boxes and hang up sweatshirts, t-shirts and coffee mugs all proudly displaying the 59th Hunger Games logo, and district seals. By tomorrow, they'll have added t-shirts with the tributes faces. When it gets closer, they'll have figurines made. I can't help but pleased with myself. It was after all the success of the last Games that made people this motivated. This excited.

People in the Capitol always loved the Games, but they didn't always love the tributes from districts other than 1,2, and 4. Last year's Games changed that, and people responded. There was such a dynamic group of tributes from both Career and Outlier districts, that people began to support tributes from all districts. The new need to show support for these tributes led to the souvenir shops. Betting also doubled. So did sponsorship.

Thinking of this puts me in such a good mood. There are certain things that one must give up to be Head Gamemaker; a social life, being up to date on the latest gossip, and time for starting a family. I'm one of the busiest citizens in the Capitol, but that doesn't matter to me. I also have one of the most important jobs in the country. I run the Games. I can do this.

When I enter the Gamemaker's control room, everyone's eyes shoot up to look at me. Head Gamemaker commands a certain level of respect, and everyone here knows that, even if they don't like me as much as they liked the previous Head Gamemaker.

Publius Flamma had planned and created every Games since the first Quarter Quell, and people here loved him. But he was old and unoriginal, and viewership of the Games fell to an all-time low. That wouldn't do for the Capitol, so two years ago, President Snow had him fired. He then organized all of the Gamemakers and interns together to pitch their best ideas for the fifty-eighth Games. I was barely an intern then, but he liked my idea best, and hired me as Head Gamemaker. Most of the other seasoned Gamemakers were bitter that I was so young and unexperienced, chosen for a promotion over people who had been here for years.

They also didn't like the way I looked. They all thought I wasn't _Capitol_ enough with my normally colored skin and simply blonde hair. The only genetic enhancement I had was the hot pink color of my irises, and for these people that was _tame._ I didn't let it phase me. I had been chosen for the job specifically by the President. I believed I could do it. So, I did.

And last year's Games were the most successful we've ever had. That alone earned me respect among the other Gamemakers. I also changed my clothes, deciding to wear the more ridiculous outfits of the Capitol. Those two things changed the other's opinions about me, and now they greet me warmly. Some of them, like Cornelia Wallansee have even become my friends.

After the cordial hellos, I'm greeted instantly with the usual Reaping day problems; broken Camera in district Two, microphone malfunctions in District Seven. Everything is dealt with easily enough by giving a couple of stern orders to my assistant, who looks like she's about to throw up. There's a general sense of nervousness in the room, but that's to be expected. I have to drink three cups of coffee before I feel ready enough to take on the day.

The screens on the wall in front of me are already showing the District squares, and the betting booths in the Capitol, giving me an early view of everything going on. One of the interns immediately places a headset and microphone on my head and as he does, I feel the nerves start to creep in again.

If I want these Games to go as well as last year, today needs to perfect. Absolutely perfect. I look to the Hologram in the middle of the room, the one proudly boasting the arena _I_ designed, and sigh. At least I know _that_ is perfect.

At ten minutes until District One's reaping, the other Gamemakers gets very serious and take their seats around the room. I can feel my palms start to sweat and I take a few deep breaths.

"Don't worry, Waverly," the Gamemaker beside me squeezes my hand encouragingly. "You organized this perfectly. Everything will go very smoothly."

It's Atticus Knack, a thirty-year-old Gamemaker who I promoted after all of his help last year. Atticus isn't afraid to take the Games to the next level, and always provides everything I can think of. I worked very closely with him on these Games, making them even more terrifying and dangerous.

"Thank you," I tell him, flashing a wide classic Waverly smile. "I just want it to begin."

The other Gamemakers are prepared and professional and logically I know as I watch them that everything is going well, but still I have to choke back the desire to micromanage.

At five minutes before, my assistant flits over to me with a tense expression of her face. In her hand, she holds one of the square emergency phones. The sight of it makes my stomach flip. Whatever or whoever is on the other end of that phone is important. No one else would dare call this close to the reaping.

"It's the President," my assistant says with a cracked voice, her eyes widening with worry.

My stomach drops a little. The President. The only person in the world who could make me more nervous. The Gamemakers who stand closest to us, have gone still. The President _never_ calls before the reapings. He usually watches from his mansion.

"I'll send it to your headset," Atticus says with a quick nod and presses a combination of numbers onto the screen. Then he nods, and my assistant puts the phone down on the table. I take a deep breath and press the button on the side of my headset.

"Mr. President," I say evenly.

"Ms. Tuffington," he answers. "I don't mean to bother you on Reaping Morning, I'm sure you have your hands full." He pauses.

"Reaping day is always busy," I agree. "But I can assure you, my team and I have everything handled. I won't let anyone or anything disrupt today."

The President lets out a small chuckle. "I don't have any doubts of that Ms. Tuffington. Something tells me you would cut out someone's heart and hold it up if they interfered with the event you have planned."

I crack a small smile and everyone in the room relaxes slightly. The President is referencing Golden Hendricks' final kill in last year's Games, when she shoved a dagger through the chest of the boy from two and literally _ripped his heart out_ before proudly holding up to the Cameras. The President made a joke about that specific kill. It was _that_ memorable. That tiny joke was the only encouragement I need. I know the Games will go well. I can do this.

"I can guarantee that, Mr. President," I say happily.

There's a pause before the President responds and this time his tone is a touch more serious. "Did you receive the note I gave you yesterday?" he asks.

I don't need any more explanation than that. I know exactly what he's talking about. The note came yesterday evening inside of a blood-red envelope escorted by three Peacekeepers, who stayed until they had ensured I read it.

The note was simple, but staggeringly important. It's in the file of important documents on the table in front of me, but I don't have to reference it. Those three names are already burned into my mind. I had them written on ten thousand slips of paper at midnight last night.

"Yes," I answer him clearly, "it's been handled. The reaping bowls were filled only with their names last night. There reaping has been ensured."

"Ah," the President breathes out a sigh of relief. "I'm glad. Thank you for making sure that was handled."

"Of course," I tell him.

"Well thank you. I will let you go now, as I'm sure you want to be ready for the first reaping," The President says. "Good luck, Ms. Tuffington. May the odds be _ever_ in your favor."

The catch phrase of the Games sends a tiny ripple of nerves down my spine as I hear them uttered. No one has ever said to them to me. I doubt anyone in the Capitol has ever heard those words outside of a joking context. But to me, I know they are serious.

In some ways, I'm almost a tribute myself. I have to make sure these Games go well. I have no choice but to make sure they go smoothly. I'll face challenges, I'll have troubles, but at the end I must be victorious. These Games must go well. I can do this.

Someone puts my metal Games folder in front of me. It's confidential and only opens at my fingerprint. I place my index finger on it and wait as it opens, revealing the files inside. On the top is the note from the President. I lift it carefully in my hands, understanding the importance of it.

 _Ms. Tuffington,_

 _As Head Gamemaker for a second year in a row, I must now burden you with a task that is left only to a select group of individuals in the Capitol. Below, you will find a list of three tributes that are to be selected at tomorrow's reapings. To ensure they are chosen, every slip in their respective bowl, must contain their name. Once these slips are made, please give them to the Peacekeepers who have delivered this note to you. They will ensure they are delivered to the correct District._

 _Use discretion, Ms. Tuffington. Do not divulge this information with anyone that you don't not absolutely need too._

 _Tributes; Futura Bug -14 -District Three,_

 _Crickett DeGraw-17-District Ten_

 _Bale Tempin-13-District Eleven_

 _My deepest thanks,_

 _President Snow_

I headed the President's warning and only shared the information with Atticus. He was the one who helped me create the phony slips, ensuring those three tributes would definitely be reaped. I chose Atticus because he is the most reliable Gamemaker I have, and because if anyone could figure out why these three particular tributes had been chosen, it was him. And I needed to know why. If whatever reason they were chosen was egregious, I needed to make sure they would not have an easy time in the arena. Technically, I can't make sure they _don't_ win, but I can make it very, very hard.

Atticus did some digging while made the slips and found some things out. Futura Bug's grandfather had been involved in the first rebellion, and was a loud opponent of the Games. That one made sense very quickly. You didn't have to think to hard to wonder why President Snow would want _her_ reaped.

Crickett DeGraw is the only daughter of the Mayor of District Ten. The very same Mayor who repeatedly has been shirking his duties and speaking publicly about his disagreements with the Capitol. Again, the presidents desire for retribution was clear.

Bale Tempin was the only tribute it took longer to track down. He's a poor field worker in District Eleven. Both his parents are dead. At first, we found nothing wrong with him. No flags that would require President Snow to reap him. Then at around ten o'clock, a Peacekeeper entered a report into the system. Bale Tempin had been beaten for stealing from the District. Then it made sense. Atticus told me every so often children who have committed crimes are reaped. It sets a good precedent and while our involvement can never be proven, it scares the others out of trying similar things. So, we made the slips and sent them to the Districts. If all goes according to plan, these three children will become tributes today. Panem willing, no one will volunteer for them. I don't know what I would do then. Probably drag them to the arena myself. I will not disappoint President Snow. Not if I want to keep this job. Not if I want to live.

Someone has turned on the pre-show and I watch as Cesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith exchange their final words on the Games and the Reapings that are about to begin. I'm not really listening, but my assistant tells me everything they say is complimentary.

The minute countdown begins and when it gets down to ten, the other Gamemakers start to cheer too. Finally, it hits one and the live feed begins, starting in District One. I watch with the rest of the country as the District One Reaping Begins.

It goes smoothly, both are the same volunteers I received on the list name night. Traditionally, the academies in Districts One, Two, and Four, the ones were jokingly not supposed to know about, send us their chosen tributes. These two, Brandi and Maia, are the same ones I saw on the paper. I remember because they have the same last name. Twins. That will either go over extraordinarily well or badly with the audience. Either way, it will get people to watch, and that's mostly what we as Gamemakers care about.

The first slip-up in my perfect plan comes in District Two. My report from the academy says the female tribute is supposed to be Saxia Masone, but another girl volunteers before her. Good, I think. That's a fighter. The audience likes fighters. Aurelia Vespillo will surely be a fan favorite after that. The male tribute looks just as fierce as she does, maybe more.

I hold my breath during the District Three reaping. If everything goes as planned, Futura Bug will be reaped. I sigh in relief when the escort reads her name aloud.

Four's reaping is predictably easy, the academy's choices are the tributes. I'm surprised when I see their choice for the boy is so young. It's uncommon for Careers to volunteer at sixteen, most wait for eighteen.

Five goes well. The girl tribute has some sort of burn scaring that makes everyone in the room cringe, and the boy is forgetful. The boy from six makes no impression. The girl puts up a fight with the Peacekeepers and has to be dragged to stage. I notice she has an injured arm and sigh. If medical wants to fix that Panem knows it will be expensive, I'll have to talk to the other Gamemakers about that before we make any decisions. In Seven, the first twelve-year-old chosen. Good, I think, the audience loves and hates when someone that young is chosen. It adds intrigue, and their deaths are always one's people remember. Specifically, when they're very gruesome. Both tributes from Eight look hungry. I barely remember the one's from nine.

In District Ten, thankfully Crickett is chosen. The mayor makes a huge emotional ordeal out of and has to be detained.

"Bring him to the justice building," I snap quickly into my headset. "He embarrassed the Capitol and broke the law. He doesn't get to say goodbye."

The boy from ten is reaped while the Peacekeepers drag the mayor away. He's nice-looking and I breathe another sigh of relief. Just as much as we need lethal tributes, we need attractive ones too. People _love_ to sponsor the pretty ones.

My nerves don't end in District Eleven. A girl is reaped quickly and then so is Bale. The beating from yesterday is clearly visible and it even looks like one of his eyes is swelled shut. The momentary joy I felt at his rigged reaping going smoothly. Disappears. We better not have to fix his injuries too. I'm not spending my whole Games budget fixing up two tributes from boring Districts. They can enter the arena like that for all I care. The final reaping is in twelve, and neither tributes are particularly surprising or interesting, but that's usually how it is in twelve.

The second their reaping is over everyone in the room claps, but I don't. My job doesn't end for today until every single one of the tributes is on the train and speeding towards the Capitol. I keep my headset glued to my ear, organizing schedules with escorts and victors, until Atticus tells me everything is on schedule and physically takes my headset off of me.

Gamemakers are starting to clear out of the control room for the day, and when I look up to the screen, I names and photos of all of the tributes under their district number.

Looking at their faces, I know. I can do this. This Games will be exactly what I want it to be. Entertaining and most importantly, deadly.

 _Good luck tributes_ , I think as I walk out the door. _May the odds be ever in your favor._


	16. Farewells and Goodbyes

**Farewells and Goodbyes:**

 **Aurelia Vespillo, 18, District Two:**

My goodbyes are not the usual career goodbyes. I have no personal visits from the mayor. No parents crying proud tears of joy. No offers of congratulations from the academy trainers. I'm pretty sure the trainers are still furious with me. Congratulations are the last thing on their mind. To them, I just spit on their entire system. But I don't feel one bit bad about it. I dedicated every second of my life from age ten to that place. I made myself the best, and they chose to ignore me for someone less talented. They don't deserve my attention.

My sister, Octavia is the only one who truly wishes me good luck and although I know she doesn't understand my desire to enter the arena, I know she has every confidence that I can win. After all, when the trainers started shifting their focus to pretty perfect Saxia, it was Octavia who spent hours in the training rooms as my sparring partner. It was Octavia who helped me become the most dangerous girl in the district. She watched as I put in hour after hour into perfecting myself, into making me the toughest version of myself I could. She is the only one in this whole god damn district I will let benefit from my win. She's the only one who knows I will win. It's not as if my parents will be tossing around a collection jar for sponsors like Saxia' s would.

I have no proud, boastful parents like she or Lykon probably has. My parents were floored by my volunteering. Their goodbye was confused to say the least. They don't understand why I did what I did. They never even really understood why I went to the academy. They don't understand the desire to enter the Games. To become victor. To prove you're the best. To them, I'm embarking on a strange little expedition of my own making. If I win, they'll be fine. If I lose, they'll get over it. But they won't have to worry about me losing. I've been training my entire life for this. I've earned it. This is my moment. I can't wait to set foot in that arena. I will dominate. That's why I volunteered in the first place. To win the games you have to be ruthless. I'm not only ruthless.

I'm the god damn best. And not because I'm pretty. Not because someone liked me. I'm the best because I earned it.

 **Sedna Dyan, 18, District Four**

The couch they sat me on in the tiny room smells like salt water. The aroma is so strong, I'm half convinced whoever sat on it last was dripping wet from the ocean. I know it's District Four and all, but the idea of someone soaking wet in the Justice building makes me giggle.

I've never been in the Justice Building before today, but I feel like it's got to be a little too fancy for ocean water. But that's just my best guess. I've never really had any reason to be in here before. My dad comes in here all the time, to meet with the mayor or run some meeting about how to better serve the District. He's pointed this building out to me over and over every day since I could walk. Whenever we walked past the giant, limestone building, Dad would point one large tanned finger at it and say,

"See that building, Sed? That's were your District is run. That is where you'll be one day, when you're a tribute."

For some reason, at age ten I never thought it would happen. Not because I didn't want it too. I wanted to help my district, but some tiny little voice in the back of my head always told me it wouldn't happen. Something would get in my way. I can't help but be a little pleased that it actually happened. The happiness is short-lived though. The second the smile graces my lips, It disappears. All I've been able to think about since the reaping is Serena. Talking to Serena, making it up to Serena. She was just so angry.

I understand why she's hurt. She thinks I've betrayed her. Se think's I stole her chance at being victor. It won't matter to her that the academy chose me. That I was the tribute who was supposed to go into the Games. The moment, she heard her name called out over District Four, that was it. She had images of winning the Games dancing across her head. I know all I have to do is talk to her. I just have to make her understand I was trying to hurt her, just fulfill my duty to my district. I'll explain it all to her when she comes to say goodbye.

The door opens and in comes my father. He's wearing a smile so large it looks like it's going to crack in half as he pulls me into a big hug. All of my thoughts of Serena disappear as he hugs me. If no one else was excited for me, my father's joy at seeing me chosen as a tribute, is worth it. I don't think I've ever seen him this happy.

"I'm so proud of you, Sedna," he says gleefully. "Beyond proud. You're going to bring such honor to our district."

"Thanks dad," I give him a kiss on the cheek and he smiles.

He takes a seat beside me on the little couch and takes both of my hands in his. His eyes crinkle on the side as he grins.

"You should hear the talk around the District," my father shakes his head happily. "The mayor himself came over and wished me good luck. He thinks you're going to win!"

I chuckle. "Well if the mayor thinks I'm going to win."

My father raises an eyebrow, and I laugh again. I know how much he cares about Mayor O'Malley. Even a joke at his expense won't be alright with him.

"I'm kidding," I tease. My father's smile returns.

"I don't know what I'm going to do for a few weeks without you kid," he says softly.

"Fish," I suggest, "and watch me win the Games."

My father squeezes my arm and gives me an assured look. "Don't worry, I'll be watching every second. And I'm going to start working on a collection for your sponsor."

"Well in that case I'll make sure I give you a good show," I tell him.

My father runs a hand through my thick curly hair and sighs. "Make sure you eat enough in the arena. There's always a water source, so there will be fish. I know it will be tempting to spend all of your time tracking down the other tributes, but make sure you're fed first, even if that means taking a day off from the slaying, okay?"

I nod my head. "Of course." It was the easiest promise I've made so far

The Peacekeeper knocks at the door and suddenly the creaky wooden door springs open. My father sighs knowing this means we have to separate. He pulls me into a hug.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," he whispers in my ear.

"I wouldn't dream of it."

We only have time to exchange one last mournful smile before the Peacekeeper drags him from the room and the door slams shut.

I sit quietly waiting for my next guest. I think it will probably be Serena. I know she'll be mad, but it doesn't matter much to me, I just have to explain myself to her.

It's not Serena, it's some of my father's employees. They wish me good luck and give me a fishbone bracelet to wear in the arena. When they leave, there's another knock at the door, and it's still not Serena. It's Murray. In all of the hub-hub of the Reaping, I didn't realize this would be the last time I'd see him before I left.

The moment he's in the room, he grabs me quickly, pulling me to him for a kiss. His hands knot in my hair and he pulls his body as close to his as we can get. It's passionate, much more passionate than we usually are, but I guess this is the time for it. It will be weeks before we see each other next. It only lasts for a few more seconds. As soon as we break apart, Murray's eyes are hard and I know it's not boyfriend Murray whose looking at me now. It's trainer Murray, and he wants to talk strategy.

"Murray," I sigh, but he stops me before I can say anything else.

"Listen," he says quickly. "There's a few last minute things I have to say, okay? First, always make sure you stay near a source of water. You're from four, it will keep you fed and worse come to worse, you'll fight better near water. You could probably drown a few tributes if you want too."

He waits to make sure I'm listening, so I nod my head along. It's not too different from what my father told me.

"And second, the moment, and I mean the moment the Career Pack starts to dissolve, you get out. Don't wait for them to start killing. If it comes to that, take em out, kay? You get your hands on a trident and you kill them."

"I won't let them kill me, Murray."

He offers me a confident smile. "I know that. You're too tough, Sed. Everyone knows it. You should hear the talk around the district. They all think we're going to have a victor this year. They think you're going to win."

"Half of them are supporting Finn too," I remind him. "They say he's one of the best tributes they've seen in years. He thinks he can beat me."

Murray waves me off, "You're better than him, I promise. I don't care what that sixteen-year-old child thinks."

The doors to the room open and Murray leans over to kiss me again. "I'll see you son, Sed."

"See you soon."

The doors close behind Murray and I perch myself back on the couch. I'm going to miss him when I'm gone. This is the only downside to the Games, having to be away from the people you love. It won't be for long though. When I come back a Victor, Murray and I can get married and move into our mansion in victor's village. That's what I decide to think about while I wait for Serena to show up so I can start groveling for an apology. Her goodbye will be the perfect opportunity to force her to listen to me.

She must have known that too, because she never shows.

I'm dragged to the train station to head for the Games, without saying I'm sorry to my best friend.

 **Niko Dyne, 18, District 5**

My brother cries at our goodbye. So, do my parents. They know as well as I do that the chances I will return home are very unlikely. We all still hold out hope, because we are not inherently pessimistic people, but we also know the reality of the Games. The reality that the winner usually come from Districts One, Two or Four. Sometimes they come from District Seven, where kids learn to use axes before they can talk in full sentences, or from District Three, where it seems everyone is a genius. Winners rarely come from Five. I think it's because we have very few marketable skills. Sure, we are incredibly hardworking and have good memories, but try pitching that at an interview with Cesar Flickerman.

"No, Cesar. I've never held a weapon before, but you should see what I can remember about my neighbors!"

I'd get laughed off the stage. No one wants to sponsor a tribute like that. People want to sponsor flashy tributes, and being noticed hasn't ever exactly been my strong suit. People barely remember me now. I have no hope of them remembering me if I'm dead. It's going to be hard to make them remember me in the arena. The only chance I have is to say hidden and learn as much about my fellow tributes as I can. The more I eavesdrop on them, the easier I can find a way to kill them.

My only visitor other than my family is Maxon. He still wears his Peacekeeper uniform, but the helmet is off and I can tell from the crease between his eyebrows that he's upset. At least my friend will remember me when I'm gone. That's a consolation at least.

 **Lincoln Nash, 16, District 6**

Jetta punched a peacekeeper.

My tiny, older sister punched a peacekeeper when they tried to drag her from the goodbye room. I guess I shouldn't be that surprised after seeing how she reacted the reaping. She was clearly more than a little upset, but to jeopardize herself like that? That's just stupid. She could be hurt. She could be thrown in jail. My reaping isn't worth it.

Luckily for us, the Peacekeeper she happened to punch is Jameson. He's easy going and has a soft spot for beautiful women. Jetta especially. He's always had a little thing for her. Something that today, I'm grateful for. She won't be thrown in jail when I leave. He didn't even react when she punched him. He just told her she could give me another hug, and she did. Squeezing me until it felt like my internal organs would explode. She gave me one last look, with tears running down her face and told me to take care of myself. Then the door closed behind her and my heart felt like it was going to break. Jetta's tough. I've seen her cry three times in my entire life, and two of them were today. Her goodbye was probably the hardest I'll have to endure today. She bawled and bawled asking me, no begging me to try and win. She said she couldn't bare to lose the only person who can give her a run for her money under an engine. Which in Jetta speak, is a profession of love. When she finished that, her face got serious.

"Look at me Lincoln," she says eerily, her eyes wide and erratic.

I sigh. "I said I'd try and win Jetta. There's not much-"

She raises a hand to me to silence me. "Do not try and grab anything from the Cornocopia, okay?" she demands. "Unless you're lighting fast or the best damn fighter in that arena, you'll die. I need you to promise me you'll get the hell out of there as fast as you can. I don't care if you leave with nothing. Promise me, Lincoln."

Her expression is so pained, so focused. I have no choice. I'll agree to this for her. It's not as if it's a bad strategy, it'll probably keep me alive through the first half hour at least.

"I promise," I swear.

Her face softens and she pulls me in for another tear-stained hug. "Also, don't try and chase anyone, okay? Only kill if you have too." She chuckles. "You won't be able to chase anyone in that arena with those chicken legs of yours. Even the girls."

I crack a smile. "You're mean, Jetta."

"I'm honest, Lincoln," she corrects with a smile. That's all it takes. That tiny exchange to have he burst into tears again.

The second she's out of the room, my brother Otto takes her place, pulling me into such a bone-crushing hug I can barely breathe.

"Otto, it's.." I trail off. I'm not sure what to say. I know I'm going to try my damndest to win, but it's still unlikely. This is probably our last conversation and we both know it.

"I should have volunteered for you," my older brother sobs into my shoulder. It's horrifying to hear him cry. Otto is a big, muscly guy. The kind of guy you never see cry. This is completely new for him. He must be truly upset.

"I asked you not too," I remind him.

Otto shakes his head as he sobs. "Doesn't matter. I'm the older brother. It should be me in the arena. I should be the one who-"

"Dies?" I finish for him.

"No," Otto shakes his head. "Who has to be in the Games." He makes the distinction very clear. Otto doesn't want me to think I'm going to die. Even in his erratic state, he wants to make sure I know he thinks I can win. That's my brother for you. He always does the right thing, even if it's probably not true. He sobs again, and this time it sounds like a wild animal that's been caught in some sort of trap.

"I'll be okay," I promise him. "Either way. Take care of Jetta, and Mom."

They must be cutting our time down, because the door opens again and Otto is pulled from the room before either of us can say anything else.

The next person who files in is my father, and only my father. Which means my mother has no doubt crawled home in order to find her stash of morphling. I can't say I'm surprised exactly. She ends up running for the morphling on a good day. On the day her son will be dragged to the Capitol to fight to death? I doubt there's enough morphling in District Six to make her feel better about that.

My father's face is stern as he sits across from me in the goodbye room. Only when I say, "I'm going to be okay you know," does he respond with a resounding, "I have no doubts."

We sit there in silence after that. After a minute, a fat tear rolls down his cheek and he wipes it away so quicky I can't be sure it was even there to begin with.

"Find a knife," he says abruptly after a few minutes. "Some of those weapons are too flashy. When it comes down to it all you need is a knife to.. uh…get the job done."

"Okay, I'll do that." I tell him.

He nods curtly and then we sit in silence until the Peacekeepers come and drag him out. Only when the door is about to close does he say anything else.

"I love you, Lincoln," he says evenly, and then the door slams shut. The closing of the door feels like it's amplified inside of my own head. It's importance and symbolism can't be ignored. I might never see my family ever again. If I do, I will be a murdered. I try not to worry about that until I have to. Instead, I try to remember that in a few short weeks, my mom could be healed. We could have money.

I could be a victor. Suddenly, I'm a little excited to be brought to the train. I'm a little excited to go to the Capitol. I could win the Games.

 **Morgan Mak, 17, District Seven**

Birch won't stop crying. He clings to my right arm, his tiny fingers digging deep into the skin while he bawls uncontrollably into my shoulder. It's been like this since the moment he entered the room. Gingerly, I ran my hands through his sandy blonde hair trying to calm him down, but it's little use. At only eight years old, he already understand what being reaped means. He knows me well enough to know I won't kill in the arena. Birch understands what's happening and doesn't want his sister to die.

Beside him, Brent stands stoically. His teeth are digging so tightly into his bottom lip it looks like he's going to bite it off. I know it's so he doesn't cry. My sweet, younger brother doesn't want to worry me anymore than necessary. I sigh, he's such a brave boy.

They both insisted on having their goodbyes separate from Momma and Papa. I think they didn't want to upset our parents any more than they had too. I can't believe what a good job they did raising them. I don't think there is a sweeter pair of kids in all of District Seven.

"Come here, Brent," I open my other arm and he doesn't hesitate before running straight it. I pull him gently to me and hug him close. Now they're both sobbing, their faces burrowing into my shoulders. I squeeze them closer to me and wish I could freeze the moment just a little while longer. There's nothing in this world that is more important to me than my baby brothers.

"It should have been me," Brent sobs into my shoulder. "I should be going. I'm your brother, it's my job to protect you."

From the way he sobs, I can tell he means everything he's said. For a twelve-year-old, he has a very heightened sense of protection and empathy. So much so, it's shocking.

"No," I whisper firmly, hugging him tighter. "Don't you ever think like that. I'm the older sister. It's my job to protect you two."

Brent sobs again and that sends Birch into another fit of hysterics. After a second, they both wipe their tears and break free of our tight hug. Brent's eyes are puffy and Birch's entire face is littered with red splotches.

I stroke their faces gently. "Everything is going to be okay," I assure them. "You two shouldn't worry about me. Just listen to Momma and Papa. Do your work and build me some really beautiful furniture okay?"

Brent nods and places a sturdy hand on Birch's tiny shoulder.

"Will you try to win, Morgan?" Birch asks through sniffles. "Just try. You never know."

Brent and I catch eyes and immediately I know my tiny, younger brother is wise beyond his years. He, unlike Birch, knows that to even stand a minor chance in the Hunger Games, you'll have to be comfortable with killing. You have to kill. Brent and I both know that's not something I can do. I couldn't hurt another person that way. Brent knows I can't accommodate Birch's request. I can see it forming in his eyes. Birch isn't even allowed to watch all of the Games. He's never seen the most gruesome and savage deaths of the Games. I can't imagine my parents will let him watch my death, but I make a mental note to remind them to forbid it. I don't want that to be Birch's last memory of his sister. I already have to lie to him enough today.

I pat Birch's head lovingly. "I'll try. That's all I can promise." It's a thinly veiled lie and Brent knows it. Another tear slides down his cheeks. Birch however, looks a little relieved and that's all I was trying to do.

The Peacekeepers come then and have to drag my wailing brothers from the room, while I cry. After that both of my parents come in. They've both been crying and they immediately pull me into a log-winded hug. They, like Brent, know I have no chance.

When we break apart I look to Momma. "I'll make sure they bring the reaping dress back to you," I promise. "I know it's one of your special ones."

Momma shakes her head and cries. "Don't you worry on that for even a second. That dress is yours now." She softens, "You look so beautiful, you know that? This is how I'm going to remember you. My beautiful, sweet Morgan." Her hand caresses my cheek and she bursts into another round of tears.

Papa is crying too, but he manages to stay coherent. He looks at me importantly.

"Morgan," he says sternly. "I know you believe that you can't do this, but I think you're wrong. You've been working with an ax since you could crawl. If you want to, you could stand a chance."

"Papa," I say, shocked he's even considering the idea of me using an ax, on people.

"I'm not saying you have to," he adds quickly, "I'm just reminding you that you're not useless. You can defend yourself at least, okay? And if you wanted to do some serious damage, you could."

"Cedar!" Momma hisses. "Don't encourage that kind of behavior!"

"We have too, Maureen," Papa snaps. "Do you want Morgan to die?"

"Of course not," Momma responds, calming herself. "But what you're suggesting."

She trails off, and it's abundantly clear what she means. There's no point in wasting any time chatting about the possibility of my winning. No matter what Papa thinks, Momma and I know better. I have no chance at all of being a victor. I can only hope I die quickly.

All I can offer him is a nod and he places something in my hand. It's the tiny wooden cube I made with Sarah.

"Your token," Papa says evenly. I smile. It will make me feel better to have a tiny piece of Sarah with me in the arena.

We sit together quietly until the Peacekeepers drag them from the room. My only other visitor is Baxton, whose clutching tiny baby Willow in his arms.

"I grabbed her from Sarah's mom," he says quickly, handing the squirming infant to me. "I figured you'd want to…. see her." What he means to say is 'so you can say goodbye', but Baxton is way too nice to actually say that.

"I do, thank you," I whisper and press Willow's tiny face against my chest. Baxton just watches me as I do and says nothing.

I rock Willow back and forth in my arms for while, whispering things in her ear that make her smile. She looks so much like Sarah, it's almost a comfort. For the first time ever, I'm glad Sarah is dead. Sarah hated the Games more than anyone I've ever known. If she knew I was reaped, she would know exactly what that meant. I'm glad Sarah doesn't have to see me die.

"You know," Baxton whispers, "I always thought that if maybe we ever got married. You and I could take care of Willow. Sarah's parents are getting quite old and I know they'd appreciate the help. I just thought it would be nice for her, you know, to have parents."

I stare at Baxton with wide eyes and the first tear of my goodbyes slides down my cheeks. Willow reaches out to wipe it with one of her chunky hands. My heart feels like it'c crumbling into a million pieces. Everything Baxton said sounds like a dream. A dream I now know I can't have, because in a few weeks time I will be dead.

"That would've been nice," I say quietly, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from crying.

"Then it's a plan," Baxton say's triumphantly. "You win and you, me and Willow will be a family. We'll even have one of those big Victor houses to live in."

Baxton's face lights up and I don't want to crush him by telling him the truth of the situation. We will never be married. We will never take care of Willow. We will never live in one of those houses in Victors Village.

Baxton and Willow will watch me die on National Television.

"It's a plan," I lie.

 **Grant Blunt, 14, District Nine:**

No one comes to say goodbye. Not one single, solitary person.

Now, I know I'm not exactly beloved in this District, but I expected someone to show up. Teddy's a little degenerate but we're supposedly friends after all. What was throwing stones at District girls more important than saying goodbye to his only friend? I guess so.

Teddy's betrayal is easy enough to move past, but my parents? I expected them to show up at least. Isn't that part of being a parent in Panem? Even the bad ones show up to say goodbye when their kids get reaped. But not mine apparently. Maybe they think I'm really going to die. They're cutting ties early, so they can move on. Well jokes on them. I'm not going to die. I'm going to win this whole thing and come back a victor. Then they'll see. Everyone will see. I'm going to be the youngest victor in history, and I'm going to make them all wish they had come to say goodbye. They'll see.

 **Velvet Wilkinson, 15, District Eight:**

My mother bawls into my shoulder. I make sure her injured hand is propped up so she doesn't hurt it worse and then I hug her back, letting her cry if she needs too.

"This is all my fault," she whimpers. "If I hadn't gotten hurt, we wouldn't be so poor and you wouldn't have to take out tesserae. I sent you to the Capitol." She begins to bawl louder.

"Mom, no," I say sternly. "None of this is your fault. It's just the way it goes. There were ten thousand names in that bowl. I just didn't have any luck today."

I'm surprised by how absurdly calm I'm appearing considering what awaits me. On the inside, my stomach is ripping itself apart with nerves and fear. Every time I think of getting on that train and heading for the Capitol, I want to cry, but I don't. I keep a brave face. My mom already knows she's going to be losing her only child. There's no need for her to also know how terrified I am. I'll save that for tonight, when I cry myself to sleep. For now, I will appear strong.

My mom cries again and clutches me tighter to her. "You were the best thing I ever did," she whispers in my ear. "The very best thing. No matter what else happened to us or what I went through, it never mattered, because I had you."

Her words yank on my heartstrings and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying. The worst part about being reaped is not my dying. I can live with that, well not live with it, but I've made my peace with it. The part of this that is unbearable is that my mother isn't going to survive it.

I stroke my mother's hair while she goes on and on about how much she loves me, and how proud she is of me. Every single word she utters cuts me deeper than a knife, and makes it so much harder to deal with this.

When the Peacekeeper comes to the door, she grabs me by the chin. "Listen Velvet," she says carefully, more forcefully than I've ever heard her speak to me in the past. "You have to your best to win. You'll have to do some things you won't like, but it doesn't matter, okay? You do what you have to to win.."

Her words stun me. My mother, the kindest and most gentle person I've ever known, the one who doesn't even like killing spiders, is advocating for me to kill as many people as I have to as long as it means I can come home? I'm floored. She must really not want me to die.

I nod and she shakes her head.

"I need you to swear it, Velvet. Swear you'll do what you have too." she snaps as the Peacekeepers start to push her out.

"I swear!" I tell her, and the door slams shut. A minute later it reopens and Seam and Tweed push their way through. Tweed immediately slams into me, hugging me so tightly she almost knocks me over.

"How?" she demands. "Of all the people in that stupid bowl, how did you get chosen. It isn't fair." Her lovely, young face is ruined with grief and fury. It hurts on a level so deep I don't know to express it. Tweed has been my best friend for so long, she's practically family. I don't like seeing her hurt. I don't relish the thought of her having to watched me hacked to death by another tribute.

"It's never fair," I remind her. "That's sort of the whole point."

Tweed lets go of me and crosses her arms. "You're my best friend," she whimpers. "I can't do this without you."

"You know you're my best friend too," I tell her, "but you have to find a way to get through this. I don't want you depressed if something happens to me."

Tweed opens her mouth to argue and I shake my head. 'I'm serious Tweed, If you turn into all mopey, I'll come back from the dead just to haunt you myself."

She frowns. "That's not funny."

"It's a little funny."

I don't know how I'm being calm enough to joke with her, I just know I'm doing it. Even though I rarely notice the age difference, Tweed still is two years younger than I am. I can't upset by her crying or breaking down. Like my mother, she can't know how scared I am. She needs to be comforted more than I do.

But Seam is older, so in some ways he knows me better. I know from the way he looks at me that he's sees straight through the façade I have created for my best friend. He looks at me sternly, his dark eyes flickering.

"Look at me," he urges, drawing me away from his tearful sister.

"Seam it's fine-" I start but he cuts me off.

"It's not fine," he says firmly. "This is going to be hard, but you have to do it. You have to win. You need to come home."

I almost sigh. Just what I need, another person urging me to come home no matter the cost. Do Seam and my mother realize what they're asking. _Hey Velvet, how about you try and survive in whatever death trap of an arena they've cooked up for you and while you're at it, make sure you stay watered and fed, and oh yeah don't mind the other twenty-three people trying to hunt you down and kill you. You'll also have to kill four or so of them to win. Easy enough, right?_

"I'm going to do my best, Seam," I promise, "but you and I both know I can't promise anything. Some of those people will be better than me and they'll have sponsors."

"Doesn't matter," Seam assures me. "You run. You do it all the time. Just outrun everyone else. The rest of it, the food, the killing? You'll figure it out."

"You sound so sure," I say quietly.

Seam smiles, "I am. You have just as good a chance as anyone else."

I open my mouth to protest, to remind him about the comprehensive training some of the other tributes have had and how good sponsors can save your life, but I don't get the chance. Seam cuts me off before I can, pulling me towards him and kissing me tightly.

I'm so stunned I can't help but think of anything other than that this is a really excellent way to shut me up.

I never once thought Seam liked me like that. Of course, we got along well, but he's Tweed's brother, I though he was doing to be polite. I always had a little crush, but that was all I thought it was. I never though he liked me

"Really?" Tweed demands impatiently. "I'm still in the room."

Seam smiles and breaks off our kiss. "So do me a favor, Velvet and try not to die, okay?"

I smile. 'I'll do my best."

Seam has just given me a really, really good reason to want to come home and that adds even more pressure. Too many people want me to live.

Peacekeepers show up at the door to escort both of them out of the room, and I give one final hug to Tweed. When I see who it is, I almost think it's a joke. It's not until the door closes and he sits down in front of me that I realize it's not. It's Sean Wilkinson. My father.

Sean is still wearing his peacekeepers uniform but has taken off the helmet, showing me the freckles and red-hair we share. It's astounding how similar we look.

"I thought I should come and say goodbye," he says evenly.

I raise an indignant eyebrow at him, "Why? You never felt the need to say anything to me before. Why start now?"

Sean sighs. "This is different. You've been reaped. That means something you know,"

"Somehow I've grasped that fact, but thanks."

He frowns. " Not saying anything to you before you go to the Games would be cruel."

I roll my eyes. "So is letting me and mom starve, but you never seemed to have a problem with that."

"What did you want from me?" he demands, "To come home and read you bedtime stories? To tuck you in at night? I'm a Peacekeeper. I couldn't do that."

"I expected you to acknowledge my existence. At least in private," I say firmly. "Which you never did. I'm pretty sure this is the longest conversation you and I have ever had."

Sean rolls his eyes and stares off into the corner of the room. "You sound exactly like your mother."

Hearing him talk about mom is the last thing I need now. It's already taking all of my strength not to think about her. I'm definitely not going to sit here and listen to someone badmouth her.

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"I didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Trust me, I know."

Sean sighs. "I didn't come here to argue with you, alright?" He seems like he's getting flustered, and I can't understand why. I certainly didn't ask him to come here.

"Why did you come then?" I ask.

His silence is answer enough. I know exactly why he's here.

"Didn't want me to die without saying goodbye?" I seethe, my lips pulling into a tight line.

Sean's eyes narrow and harden. "No. I came to tell you not to give up."

Sean reaches around his neck and pulls off a silver necklace. The chain is thing and long and at the very end of it is a circle pendant a little bigger than my thumbnail. It's incredibly shiny and have the number Eight carved into it. He weighs it in his hands for a moment and then places it around my neck. The charm hangs low. It's real silver and that makes my eyes widen in disbelief. The cost of this necklace could have fed me and my mother for a year.

"I got that as a gift from my supervisor for doing an exemplarily job a few years back," Sean says. "I figured you might need a token for the Games You can give it back to me when you win."

I stand frozen and stunned. There's no way Sean believes I will win. This is a patronizing attempt to get his necklace on screen. He knows as well as I do that it will be returned to my mother when I die. This is pity.

"So….good luck, I guess." Sean says quickly and then he gets up and leaves the room, not waiting for the Peacekeepers to escort him out.

He's my last visitor and I'm glad. As I twirl the necklace through my fingers, I realize don't need anything else to think about.

 **Gael Yule, 17, District Ten:**

I've never liked goodbyes. They always depressed me. So, I knew this was going to be bad. Even before the Games, I always thought this particular part of the Games was kind of horrible. Everyone in the room knows you only have a 1/24 chance of living. Those aren't exactly good odds. It's hard for people to convince you that you can win with odds like that. Flora says goodbye first. She cries and begs me to try my best to win. She also promises that if I die, she'll still bring over the medication for my mom. Flora's good like that.

When my parents come in, they're a little slower. Dad has to support mom entire weight. She can't walk on her injured leg. They tell me over and over how much they love me, and how proud they are of who I have become. Mom especially dotes over me. I know it must be her maternal sense. She knows she may never see me again.

They only leave when they have too, when Peacekeepers force them too. My brother Buck comes in next. He's serious and talks strategy with me almost the entire time. His advice is all very practical; stay hydrated, find a long knife like we use on the ranch, don't ally with anyone I don't trust. I make mental notes of everything he says.

"Rope," he adds. "You work with rope all the time on the ranch. You can make lassos and noose's. Make those if you have to. Killing people is no different than killing those cattle."

"It's a little different, Buck," I tell him.

He shakes his head, "Don't let it be." Then he launches back into his tips. Don't eat plants you don't recognize. Don't be a hero.

All the time he's talking, I'm also thinking about Tallon. I don't know him well enough for him to come say goodbye to me, and I'm not delusional enough to think he's going to show up. But he is my brother's best friend. I wonder whether or not I should tell Buck I'm in love with Tallon. He could pass the message along for me, then at least Tallon would know I like him. Then again, Buck doesn't even know I'm gay. I think on top of my probable death, that confession might be a little too much for him. I decide I can't do that to Buck. If I want Tallon to know I love him, I'll have to win, so I can come back and tell him myself.

When Buck finishes giving me tips, his expression changes almost immediately. He bites his bottom lip and makes the same face I do when I have something to say.

"What?" I ask him.

Buck sighs, "Look, you know you're District partner Crickett DeGraw?"

I nod, "Yeah. The mayor's daughter."

Buck nods, "Yeah. Her. Well, I sort of. I don't know. I like her I guess. I mean I wasn't in love with her or anything, but I definitely felt something."

Buck liked Crickett DeGraw? I almost want to laugh. Both his brother and the girl he liked were reaped today, and only one can live. Talk about a catch-22. I guess the odds really weren't in his favor today. Maybe after an admission like this, I can tell him about Tallon.

My eyes must have widened in shock or something because Buck immediately adds "Of course I want you to win, Gael." His face looks like he's worried I won't believe him.

"I know, Buck," I say, even though I'm not totally convinced.

Buck frowns. "It's just. I was wondering fi you could look out for Crickett in the arena? I'm not saying don't try and win, or to have you take a knife for her or anything. Just, make sure her death isn't prolonged or bloody. Maybe, help her out if you can? I just don't want her to suffer."

My brother is pleading. He must like her more than I thought. I feel for him now, worse than I did before. I can't say no to him like that.

"I'll keep an eye out for her," I tell him. Buck smiles.

"Good. Hurry home okay, brother?" he says. I nod and he pulls me into a tight hug.

He gets up to go for the door, and I can feel my chance slipping away.

I take in a deep breath. "Hey, Buck!Can you tell Tallon-" I look at Buck's waiting face and lose all of my nerve.

"Yeah?" Buck asks.

I shake my head. "Never mind."

Buck gives me an odd look and then leaves the room swiftly. I take a seat back down on the couch and frown. I am the biggest coward ever.

Now I know I have to win. I have to come home and tell Tallon how I feel.

 **Shiloh Bellows, 14, District Twelve**

I think I probably have the longest goodbyes in the history of District Twelve. Or at least close to it. Every single member of my family comes to say goodbye, even the little kids and my elderly grandparents. Each one wishes me good luck and gives me a few last-minute tips. Some of them make sense and some of them are little stupid, but I listen to each one carefully. I'm just glad giving me advice seems to keep my family calm and collected. If they all started crying, I would probably too and then I'd be all puffy and tear-stained when I get on the train to the Capitol. I have to appear confident at least. No one will sponsor the crying tribute. My father is the only one cries. Somehow, he manages to get the room to just me and him. He pulls me into a tear-filled hug and then wipes at his eyes.

"You know," he says sniffing slightly. "You might have a chance, Shiloh. You and I are always in those woods. You know every edible and inedible plants for miles."

"That's not much compared to kids who can throw knives," I say solemnly.

My father shakes his head, "Don't discount your abilities, Shiloh. You'll be able to feed yourself. You might even be able to poison someone."

"Poison someone!" I demand.

My father nods. "Yes. You and I both know if you want to win these Games, you have to be on the offensive."

"I think I'm going to stick to using my skills just to feed myself," I tell him, "but thank you for the advice."

"For now, that's fine," my father says. "But there will come a time in that arena where you need to kill someone, Shiloh. My only hope is that when that time comes, you do it. This family needs you."

I sigh, feeling an enormous amount of pressure being placed on top of me. How am I supposed to win this? How am I supposed to come home? My father's right. I won't be able to do that without being on the offensive, and I'm not sure if that's something I can do.

If I only I was skilled like those girls in the woods. There's not a doubt in my mind that either of those girls would even blink an eye before killing another tribute. I can only hope I channel some of that in the arena.

Otherwise, I will die.


	17. Trainrides

Train Rides:

 **Lykon Sestius, 18, District Two:**

It takes an obnoxiously long time to get out of the justice building and onto the train. I kept my goodbyes short and sweet for this very reason. I was anxious to get this ball rolling. There was no point in drawing it out with long, sappy goodbyes. That's not what this is about. Sappy, tear-eyes farewells are for the wimps who know they aren't going to win. They have to know that's why the Capitol does it. They think it's to say goodbye? No. This is a game. The goodbyes are designed to get tributes crying, so that when they get to the train station filled with reporters, they look weak. The strong tributes never cry in the goodbye room. I made mine very snappy. There was no one to say goodbye to other than my parents. They were calm and collected and offered me luck. They're not worried even a little. They've known for years I was going to volunteer. Probably from the moment they realized I could lift twice the weight of grown men when I was only ten.

When I do finally get escorted out of the Justice building and into the car, Aurelia is already in there with the escort. She must have been even faster than I was with the goodbyes. I scan her face for any residual signs of tears, but don't find any. Her bangs are long and fall into her eyes, but her face isn't red or patchy at all. Aurelia must not have been crying even a little. Not that she seems like the type. She barely looks at me when I get in the car. The escort is babbling away about something in her ear, but she's barely looking at her either. It looks like she's picking some kind of dirt out from under her nails. I get a better look at her bruised knuckles and see the dark purple spots spreading across her hands. They really do make her look tough. Smart move. She and I are similar. That worries me a little. With Saxia, I planned on ignoring her until she died in the arena. I wasn't worried about having to decipher her. Saxia was as deep as a puddle. But Aurelia has always been tougher than her. I'll have to keep my eye on her.

Aurelia's eyes dart upwards instantly, as if she could actually hear what I was thinking. She raises an eyebrow at me hesitantly, noticing me watching her. I raise one back and she smirks. I keep my face stern. Aurelia needs to know she's dealing with a competitor.

I furrow my brows and then turn to look out the window while the car starts moving. When we get to the train station there are photographers. They scream our names and snap our photos but neither Aurelia or I crack a smile. It's clear we're going for the same image; strong, tough, defiant. I wouldn't smile if anyone told me to anyway. I detest this part of the Games. I'm not going to smile and dance for the enjoyment of the Capitol. I like the Games for what they are. I'm here for one thing only; to win. The rest of it is pointless.

As the photographers snap our photos, I can't even imagine how terrifying they will look to the rest of the tributes. That almost makes me smile. I like the idea of people being scared of me before I even show up.

We get ushered onto the train quickly and our escort flits off to find our mentor. District Two has so many mentors it changes too often to keep track. We'll meet them at dinner, which means we have several hours to ourselves before that happens. Personally, I'm hoping it's Brutus, the savage killer from a couple of years ago. I think our styles are similar. I might may be able to learn something from him. Hopefully, that's who will be at the dinner table.

Aurelia disappears immediately without warning or an attendant. I don't let myself worry about where she's going. I'm hoping it's to go cry or something.

One of the Capitol guys offers to take me to my room but I shake my head furiously at the thought.

"Where can I watch the reapings?" I press him. "You have them here right?"

The Capitol attendant frowns. "They're not all completed yet. They are only up to five right now on the live screenings. Perhaps you'd like to wait until this evening and view them with your mentor?"

I narrow my eyes. "I'm going to start now. Where can I watch them?"

The attendant sighs and when it becomes clear to him I won't accept any other answer he nodes. He leads me through the train car's massive, chrome hallways, stopping in front of one metal door. In thick black letters, it reads SITTING ROOM. He places his hand down on its handle and it slides open instantly.

"In here," the attendant nods.

I roll my eyes. "Thanks for all your help."

The Capitol attendant disappears without another word and leaves me to enter the room. It's wide and expansive with thick red, velvet couches and black leather armchairs. The tv is already on and I can hear the sounds of the first reaping being announced. I spin around quickly and find Aurelia curled up on one of the couches, her eyes boring into the televised reaping. I'm fileld with such a sudden and intense upsurge of rage it takes all of the rational I have not to hurl the heavy metal lamp beside me at her hear.

Of course, Aurelia got here first. She thinks exactly like I do. I'm going to have no choice but to kill her myself the second the Games start. I can't have someone who thinks exactly like me running around the whole time.

She's completely immersed in the first reaping, with a notebook and pencil in her lap. She's taking notes? I can't tell if that's smart or not. Probably is.

"You can sit down," she says, not taking her eyes off of the screen.

I narrow my eyes. I don't like the idea of her telling me what to do. She's acting as though she came up with the idea. As if I followed her in here.

"I was going too," I tell her hoarsely. I sit as far away from her on the couch as I can. Aurelia smirks a little and scribbles down the name of the female tribute whose reaped from One. Now I want to grin. Maybe she doesn't think like me after all.

"Don't you know anything about the Games, Aurelia?" I ask. "There's always a volunteer from District One."

As if answering my words. A gorgeous silver haired blonde with full red lips leaps forward on the screen to volunteer. Aurelia sets her teeth together as she scratches the name of the reaped tribute out and scribbles the name of the volunteer. Maia Boyle.

They move onto the male tribute immediately and this time Aurelia waits for the volunteer to write anything down. I give her a cocky grin. She pretends not to see it, and we watch the rest of the reapings in silence.

I shouldn't have worried before. Aurelia is too quick to act. It's going to make it easy for me to kill her.

 **Lydia Light, 16, District 5**

I shouldn't have been surprised. I should have expected it. I don't know why I didn't. Maybe it was my fear of the Games, or the uneasiness I felt from my family's goodbye, but whatever it was I momentarily forgot what I looked like. Not for long though. The audible gasps of horror from the reporters reminded me immediately.

They were experienced Games photographers. People whose job it is to take photos of the tributes from all across the country. They see kids who are skin and bones. Kids whose skin has turned saggy and yellow from morphling addiction. Kids missing limbs from coal mining accidents. And still they had never seen a tribute as marred or hideous as me.

I guess if I were a tougher tribute I could work this to my advantage. Could terrify the other tributes. I could use their initial shock and hesitation as an element of surprised. I could kill them quicker. Of course, for all that to work, I'd have to be a tough tribute and I'm not. I'm meek. I'm quiet. And everyone knows the only shot meek tributes have is if their pretty. Then they get sponsors. I almost snort. I know with a burned, blistered face like mine, I'd be lucky to get a wafer delivered to me in the arena.

My escort is not quite sure how to handle the press at the station. Once they recover. They begin to snap our photos, but I notice most of the are from my good side, and focus more on my district partner, Niko.

Niko hasn't said anything to me since we got in the car. He just sat stoically listening to he escort and I chat about my goodbyes. My sister Lemon's goodbye was terrifying. She was actually envious of me. She went on and on about the food I would get to try and the beds I would get to sleep in. She wishes it were her who got to go to the Capitol. If you listened to Lemon talk about the Games, you could almost forget it was a fight to the death. Of course, my escort ate that right up. She's from the Capitol. She loves the idea of tributes being excited about the Games. She misread my anecdotes about my sister as cheerful instead of disturbing, and I didn't have the heart or the energy to correct her.

Niko seemed to understand a little bit. I saw his left eyebrow twitch up in surprise when I talked, so he seemed to understand at least a little.

When the photos finally stop, we're ushered onto the train. Our mentor is Ferdil, a man who won almost fifteen years ago. He's sick now and our escort informs us we won't be meeting him for awhile. She waves one of her tiny hands and two Capitol attendants appear to bring us to our rooms.

Niko and my rooms are right beside each other. He goes into his first, giving me a little bit of a preview as to what mine will look like. My jaw hangs open when I see it. The entire room is twice the size of my home back in the District. The bed alone, rises several feet into the air and could fit my whole family three times over.

"All of this is for me?" I ask the attendant. I can already see how his eyes dart across my ruined face before he answers. It doesn't surprise me. I'm used to it at this point.

"Yes," he answers curtly. He looks so uncomfortable I give him a gentle nod and he disappears from the room. It's not as if I wanted him hanging around anyway. It's not as if I liked being stared at like I'm some kind of freak.

I sit down on the edge of the bed and stare at my skirt. I wonder if they're going to return it to my family when I die in the Games. I hope they do. Otherwise Lemon will be going to the reaping stark naked next year. There's no way my family can afford another one. We live on hand-me-downs.

The thought is far too morbid to keep thinking about. Instead I worm my way under the giant fluffy covers and pull them over my head. It's so thick and muffled I'm sure no one can hear my crying under here, so I bawl. I cry and cry until I've used up every tear I have left. After this, I will not cry again.

 **Melody Twig, 16, District Eleven**

Everything is a blur until we get onto the train.

I hardly remember anything about my goodbyes. Not that I really want too. Do I want my last memory of my dad to be the sobbing, desperate man in the Justice building? No. That would be cruel. Dad is a strong, loyal, unwaveringly dedicated man who always made sure his children ate. No matter what. That is how I'll remember him. Not the way I just saw him. And my poor little brothers? Only two of them were old enough to understand what was going on. They cried, and then the younger ones, who were saved by ignorance, began to cry too. I block all of that out, trying my best to wipe that scene from my memory. I have too many good ones of my family that I'd rather cling to over the next few days. I refuse to let the Games ruin those for me too.

The only really thing I'm focused on, is Bale. I desperately want to talk to him, but I know that's pretty much impossible. I can't talk to him with our escort around. And I certainly couldn't start chatting when the photographers took our pictures.

Bale is stoic the entire time though. He looks even worse than I thought he would, but he outs up with the camera's anyway. One eye is still swollen shut, but somehow, he manages to look tough for the cameras.

When I was watching him beaten in the fields, I was sure that was the worst thing that would ever happen to him, but I was wrong. This is. He's been reaped, leaving his poor baby siblings with no one to look after them. Forcing him, even wounded, to participate for the Capitol. The very same people who led his family to starvation in the first place.

It's almost too coincidental that this happened. The very day after Bale pisses off the District and the Peacekeepers, he's sent to the Games? That's highly convenient. I know enough not to bring it up though. People always suspect some of the reaping's are rigged, but it's damn stupid to say anything about it. If you do, your name or the name of someone you care about is sure to be pulled out of that bowl the next year.

When we finally get escorted to the train, we're brought straight to our rooms. Bale is dropped off first and make a mental note of where his room is. Mine is only two turns further, and I make sure the Capitol attendant leaves immediately. As soon as their gone, I make a beeline for Bale's room.

I know I don't know Bale very well, but we're from the same place. We both work in the fields and we both do whatever we have to do to keep our families fed. And now, we've both been sent to the Games. I feel a sort of kinship with Bale I doubt I could feel with anyone else. He's so young to have already had all of this happen to him. If I were in his place, I'd want someone to talk too.

Carefully I knock on the door. There's a pause before I hear his tiny, defeated voice croak back, "Come in."

I push down on the door and it glides open effortlessly. Bale is sitting up on his bed, pressing a damp cloth onto his swollen eyes. Even from here, he looks terrible.

"Melody?" he asks.

I nod quickly, suddenly feeling nervous I've encroached on a private moment. Maybe I shouldn't have come.

I wring my hands together, feeling stupid. "I just wanted to come and check on you. You know, make sure you're alright and everything."

Bale stares back at me in disbelief and then very slowly nods his head. "Thank you. That's….kind."

"Kind is my middle name," I say weakly.

Bale stares back at me for a long moment and then lets out a quick breath.

"Where you working yesterday?" he asks. "When it happened?"

I nod solemnly. "Yeah I was. I know how bad it was. When I saw what they were doing. I couldn't believe it."

Bale's face turns hard immediately and even I can see the hate that flashes across it. "I can. Peacekeepers work for the Capitol. They starve us, enslave us and then.." Bale draws a small hand out to gesture to the room we stand in, "…. deliver us to our timely deaths."

It's hard to hear coming from Bale's mouth, considering he's so young. Usually, it's only the older people in the District who are this hardened. Who hate the Capitol this vehemently?

Then again, I remember all Bale has been through and it starts to make sense. The Capitol are taking everything from him. Even his life. What chance do District Eleven tributes have on their best day? Very little. That coupled with Bale's injuries? It most certainly means death.

"I'm here if you want to talk about anything," I tell him. In light of what he's facing, the offer seems to small and insignificant, but it's all I can really offer him. Bale only stares at me.

"My room is down the hall. Two turns and you're there," I add, and then turn on my heels to leave him alone. "I'll see you at dinner."

"Melody! Wait!" Bale's call stops me before I press down on his door.

I turn around. "Yeah?"

He looks much younger than thirteen when he answers. For the first time since he's been reaped, I see the fear and the terror etched into his features.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome," I tell him, and then I turn and head back for my room.

 **Junez Croster, 16, District Eight:**

The goodbyes were basically a joke.

Sure, I got to say goodbye to my little sister Lorraine, but what I really wanted was to tell my older brother Rasta how much I despised him. He must have known this was coming, because he never showed. In total, my goodbyes took a total of four minutes. One visitor. Four minutes. That has to be some kind of record. When I finished, the Peacekeepers escorted me to the car waiting outside. On my way, I see the Peacekeeper Wilkinson walking out in the opposite direction. He wears his uniform, but no helmet. Was he saying goodbye to that daughter of his? I find that kind of unlikely. I've never once seen them together. Hell, I've probably seen Wilkinson more than she has. I've always have been one of his favorite District kids to hit with that baton of his.

I can't help it. The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. Right before I reach the justice building door I shout,

"HEY WILKINSON,"

I watch as Wilkinson spins on his heels to look at me. When I see I've got his attention I smirk at him. I know I'm going to die in the Games, so I decide I might as well leave in a blaze of glory.

"What, street rat?" he snaps at me. It only makes me smile wilder.

"I guess you're going to have to find a new punching bag, huh?" I tell him. "Good luck finding another one now that I'm gone. You might have to actually use that pea-sized brain of yours to find a real rule-breaker instead of kids, to beat up. Shame, huh?"

The one reliable thing about him, is that he's always gets very angry. I watch as the red flares across his freckled face and I know he wants to hit me. I even see his right-hand flinch towards his baton. He stops just short of grabbing it. It's against the law to harm a reaped tribute. He would be sentenced to death if he even laid a single finger on me. I can say whatever I want and he knows it. This moment is so glorious it almost dims the anger I feel about being sent to the Games.

The peacekeepers pull me from the room and shove me into the car waiting downstairs. My escort is there and she greets warmly. I don't reciprocate and she sighs. We say nothing while we wait. After a few minutes, the door opens and Velvet darts into the car. As soon as the door closes behind her, the car starts to move.

The escort greets her too, and Velvet repcricoates quietly. Her face is flushed and she looks a little keyed up, making me wonder what her goodbyes were like. They took way longer than mine did, so she must have actually had people to see her off. People who probably wanted her to stay in the District. Must be nice.

We sit in silence for most of the ride, and soon it becomes uncomfortable. The escort has given up talking to us and is staring at the notebook in front of her. Velvet stares absentmindedly out the window, her head resting on her hand. Looking at her now, I realize she's just as skinny as I thought she was.

"You run right?" I blurt out quickly. The words sound rushed and stupid considering the level of silence we've maintained so far. Velvet turns to face me, her wide eyes focusing in on me as she realizes I was talking to her.

She nods her head. "Yeah, a couple times a week. You do too right?"

I nod carefully. "Yup."

Velvet offers me a tiny smile in response, clearly happy she's managed to drag a halfway polite response out of me.

"I've seen you," she says to me. "You're fast."

"You're faster," I shrug. "You and that friend of yours lap me every time."

"His name is Seam," she says quietly.

"Well. You're both pretty fast," I add nervously. Velvet smiles broadly.

I don't know why I'm being so nice to her. I'm not normally this nice to anyone except my sister. Then again, most of the people in my district ignore me. They never even give me the chance to talk to them. Velvet doesn't have much of a choice trapped in this car with me. She has to listen to me. Not that it's a bad idea to be on good terms with your District Partner. They're really the only people you can trust in the arena to ally with. They rarely turn on you, and somehow I doubt this tiny redhead would betray me. I have to be nice to her, if I want any kind of ally in the Games. Everyone knows the victor always has allies.

"You run?" the escort asks Velvet, "and you're fast?" Velvet nods.

"Make sure you tell your mentor that," the escort says quickly. "You too, Junez."

Right, out mentor. I almost forgot I have a whole other person to convince I'm worth keeping alive. It's going to be hard enough. People never really take to me, even before all of this. I doubt anyone will be able to make me bright and shiny enough to want to sponsor.

We get to the train station quickly and we suffer through a few minutes of having our photo taken. My first instinct is to scowl at the photographers. I see Velvet takes a similar approach, keeping her face devoid of any emotion. Good, let the other tributes think that the kids from District Eight are tough. We need all the help we can get.

I disappear into my room after that. The escort makes it clear that we can do whatever we want until dinner, and I would prefer to be alone. The second the door to my bedroom is slammed close behind me I feel a sense of anger rear its head.

This is what it's going to be like for the next few days. Rigid rules, stupid obligatory activities and all in preparation for my death. I know there's no way I can win this stupid thing anyway.

I'm so full of anger and frustration I punch the lamp on my nightstand table. It goes crashing to the floor and shatters into a thousand pieces.

Watching it break is so cathartic, that I shatter the other one too. Then I'm worked into such a frenzy I start smashing everything I can in the room. Anything that will break; lamps, the toilet lid, the mirror. The residual mess is so wide and expansive I'm almost sure they'll have my arrested for it. Not that it matters. I'm going to die in a few days' time anyway. What's the worst thing they can do to me before that?

Eventually one of the Capitol attendants hears the destruction I'm causing and bursts into the room. He takes one look at the mess all around me and quietly creeps out of the room. I don't know what he plans to do but he never does come back. Maybe the sight of a rough-looking tribute from an outer district scared him off. I almost hope that's it. I want the other tributes to fear me. I want to look scary. It will keep me alive longer.

When dinner time comes, my escort knocks on the door to tell me to join them. I ignore her and spend the rest of the night in my room. I'm not in the mood to sit around a table and talk about what's going to happen. I know what's going to happen. I'd rather stay here and be angry.

It's almost an hour later when there's another knock at the door.

"I'm not coming to dinner!" I shout back, growing angrier. This escort has got some nerve.

"It's me," I soft voice calls from the other side of the door. "Velvet. Can I come in?"

That's a little surprising. I sit up on the bed in a more normal position and call back. "Come in."

The door pushes open and Velvet lightly strides in through the doorway, she clutches a soft yellow cloth napkin in her hands. Her eyes widen in shock as she takes in the state of my broken disheveled room.

She holds the napkin out to me. "I snuck some stuff from the table for you. I thought you might be hungry, even though you didn't want to join us." I can tell from her tone that my absence was noted by the escort, and probably are mentor too.

Slowly, I take the napkin from her and unwrap it. In it is some slices of thin, warm meat. A few dinner rolls and several different kinds of cooked vegetables. The sight and smells of it makes my stomach lurch. I didn't realize how hungry it was.

"I'd eat it slow if I were you," Velvet warns me quietly. "That stuff is heavy, but it's really good."

I see now that she looks a little green. Neither of us are used to being full, let alone that full. I head her warning and take small bites gingerly. The food is heavy, but it's probably the most delicious thing I've ever tasted.

"Good huh?" she asks me.

I nod my head slowly and swallow my bite. "Decent. Who's our mentor?"

Velvet blinks, as if she wasn't expecting the question. "Cecelia. From eight years ago."

Eight years ago. The last time District Eight had a winner.

"Isn't she pregnant?" I ask.

Velvet nods. "Yeah. I'm hoping it will make people sympathetic and garner us some sponsors."

"Or make us look weak and incapable," I mutter glumly.

She shrugs. "Yeah, well there's not much we can do about it. I'm going to head back to my room. Enjoy the food. Though you might want to make an appearance at breakfast or face the wrath of a pregnant mentor."

"I'll keep that in mind," I tell her, amused she managed to crack a joke. People are never comfortable around me to crack jokes. "Thanks for the food."

Velvet offers me another tiny smile and then ducks out of the room, leaving me alone. I finish off the food from the napkin and think quietly. The Hunger Games are all about stacking the odds in your favor. A strong tribute can't win without skills, allies, and a good mentor. Even a Career. I may be from District Eight, but if I'm not totally unskilled. I'm a fast runner and I'm good at being hungry and scavenging with food. I've got a decent relationship with my district partner. I'm sure I could convince Velvet to become an ally. That's two out three. If I can make sure my Cecelia fights for me in the Capitol, I could stand a decent chance. I could win.

I decide forming a relationship with Cecelia will be my priority. Which means, I'll probably have to make an appearance at breakfast. I sigh and roll over. Outcast-rough around the edges Junez is going to have to make some serious changes if I want a chance at winning. I can only hope I can convince Cecelia to help me try.

 **Brandi Boyle, 18, District One**

District One is the best district in all of Panem.

It's not a matter of opinion, it's just a fact. Everyone knows it.

We're the closest District to the Capitol. We make luxury goods. Our jobs are easier, our homes are nicer, and our people are wealthier than any other district in the country. Everyone who lives here knows we have every advantage. We truly are the best.

Being from District One means that our reaping is the very first one aired. This is excellent for me, because it means that the Capitol and all of the other tributes have to see my face first. My exquisite features will be etched deeply in their shallow minds. Everyone knows you only remember the first and last few tributes you see. All the ones in the middle? No one ever remembers them. They're goners.

The only downside is that it takes at least an hour before they start showing District Two's reaping. So by the time Maia and I have said our goodbyes to our parents at the Justice building, and posed for photos at the train station, it still isn't on yet. The tv is on but it's just showing recaps of our reaping while the announcers talk about us and our chances.

I'll admit, it's thrilling to rewatch. Both Maia and I look stunning on the screen. It's almost impossible to draw your eyes away from our faces. The large studio lights dance off of our silvery hair and blue eyes. That combined with our perfect bone structure and full lips, makes us look like gods among men. The other tributes will be green with envy. The people of the Capitol will already be tripping over themselves to sponsor us.

As we speak, Claudius Templesmith and his guest host Mirabella Rootless are beside themselves with excitement. If only one of us were to volunteer, I'm sure it would still have been exciting. But the both of us? Twins? They're beside themselves with excitement. They're predicting we'll be fan favorites. They think we'll be top two. Claudius Templesmith jokes no one will be able to decide which twin to root for. I smirk. I'm sure just looking us would make the decision difficult. As much as I hate to admit it, my sister and I are equal in physical beauty. It's my strength and talent that will make me the winner. The twin that people choose to support. Maia is not strong enough to win. People will see that as soon as we enter the arena.

Our mentor joins us while we wait for the District Two reaping to begin. It's last year's winner, Golden Hendricks. She sits across from on the couches, crossing her impossibly long legs slowly. At only nineteen, she's richer and more lethal than anyone else in the District. She gives some of the older, male victors a run for their money. She flips her long, bouncy honey colored hair, and smiles at us.

It's impossible not to think Golden is attractive. She is the model of what a District One victor is supposed to be; beautiful and deadly, and she knows it. She watches my gaze drift up her body and her wide lips pull into a cocky smirk. Looking the way, she does is what made people discount her last year. Some of the toughest male Careers were too busy checking her out to realize she had no problem literally ripping people's hearts out. There was hardly a moment in last year's Games Where Golden wasn't covered in the blood of another tribute. There is no doubt in my mind now that I want her. When I win these Games, I'm going to marry Golden.

"So," she says cocking a perfectly arched eyebrow. "It looks like I've got a couple of contenders this year, huh?"

I met her with a sultry gaze, the one I use on the girls in the district, and stretch my arms above my head, giving her a subtle look at my heavily muscled arms.

"I'd say you definitely have the winner sitting in front of you," I tell her cheekily.

Golden doesn't take her eyes off of me. She starts off looking at the diamond cuff on my wrist and then her eyes rake slowly up and down my body, stopping on my face. The corners of her mouth turn up into a smile. It's clear she feels similarly to me. She will make sure I win. She wants me to come back a victor.

"I don't doubt it," she purrs back. "I have a sense for these things."

"Well maybe you could give me a few tips" I suggest slyly. "Really make sure I'm properly mentored."

"It would be my pleasure."

It's as if Maia isn't here at all. Golden and I have our gaze locked on one another. From beside me I see my sister turn back to the tv, where the second reaping is beginning. Golden ignores her and continues to talk to me, and only me. Giving me quick tips that are dripping with double entendre. Maia makes an annoyed sound in the back of her throat.

Good. It's high time she learned what I already know. Maia thinks she has a chance at these Games. She thinks all of her hard work and training is going to pay off. I want to snort at the idea. Sure, you have to be skilled to win, but your skills aren't what determines the winner. You have to be able to manipulate people. It's a Game, after all.

And from the way Golden is looking at me, the excitement and determination in her eyes, I know she's going to favor me. She's going to help me, and me alone.

The Games haven't even started, and I'm already beating my sister.

 **Cinder Moreton, 16, District Twelve**

Being on the train is weird.

Much weirder than the goodbyes and the photographers at the train station. For starters, on the train everyone watches us. Our escort is always looking at us, always talking. She talks so constantly, my district partner, Shiloh and I have barely exchanged two words to one another. Not that he would anyway. It became very clear in the car ride over that I'm the talker, while he prepares to sulk in silence. I don't have high hopes for the two of us becoming allies in the arena. He's barely even looked in my direction since this whole thing started. Sure, I get that he's younger and everything, but shouldn't he have grasped the importance of this by now? Does he really think it's a good idea to give your district partner the cold shoulder?

I tried to shake it off when we got on the train, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't bothering me. I'm used to people getting along well with me. The girls in my family usually have a polarizing personality. Sure, I'm not quite as charismatic as Ember or Pyre, but pretty close. I never usually have to worry about people disliking me. It's fitting that now, when it matters most, someone would dislike me. Well, fine. I can live with Shiloh not liking me, but he better not expects any help from me in the arena.

Our mentor is the only one who needs to like me anyway. I know who it is before the escort even introduces us. Haymitch Abernathy is the only living District Twelve victor. He's mentored every year since he won nine years ago. At only twenty-five, he's still as close to a celebrity as we have in twelve, even despite his well-documented drinking problem.

He must be a little inebriated when we meet him, because despite being friendly and charming, he barely looks at me. He seems more focused on Shiloh, who doesn't even acknowledge him, unless Haymitch asks him a direct question. Haymitch asks quite a few.

Eventually, our escort puts on the television and we listen to the reapings while Haymitch pesters Shiloh with question after question. Being from twelve means we at least get to see all of the reapings in order.

I watch the first reaping almost in silence, only half paying attention. I'm still irritated that both Shiloh and Haymitch seem hell bent on pretending I'm not there. Being reaped and sent to the Games sucks worse enough without being ignored too. The only good thing about being reaped is all the attention you get. Without that, this whole thing sucks.

Maia Boyle is the volunteer from District One and she's so ravenously beautiful, my self-esteem takes a massive hit the second she descends on the stage. She's a Career too which means she's probably highly trained and has money too. From the size of the gemstone hanging from her neck, I'd guess a lot too. How is it that money and beauty always seems to fall to the same people? It's not fair. The rest of us will have very little luck snagging sponsors with the likes of her running around. As if I didn't have enough to worry about.

The male tribute is a volunteer too, and he's so gorgeous his beauty even rivals the girl that came before him. He's probably the most beautiful man I've ever seen in any of the Games. Wow, District One is lucky this year. Both of their tributes are gorgeous. They even look alike; with their same silvery hair and ice blue eyes..

It isn't until the male tribute's name is announced over the microphone that I realize they have the same last name. They're brother and sister. Twins.

Something inside me snaps.

"Twins!?" I demand loudly, not taking my eyes off of the screen. "You've got to be kidding me! Who in their right mind would volunteer against their sibling!"

I have a twin brother. In no way, can I ever imagine a scenario where I would willingly fight to death against Blaze. There's only one winner in the Games. Even if I didn't have to kill him, someone would.

"You're shocked?" Haymitch laughs coldly. "Those kids are from District One. They just volunteered for the Games, and you're shocked they don't mind killing their twin to win?"

He makes an excellent point but it's not enough to shake the horrified feeling that's arisen in my stomach.

"I'm a twin," I tell him fiercely. "There's no way either my brother or I would ever consider that. I don't care where they're from."

"You're a twin?" my escort asks, cluelessly. I ignore her, looking at Haymitch only.

"You'll drive yourself crazy if you try to understand anything anyone from District One is doing," he says taking a sip from something in a tiny silver flask. Even from across the couch, I recognize the smell as white liquor. It's strong enough to strip the paint from the walls.

"Maybe we should be trying to understand what District One does," Shiloh adds quietly. "I mean they do win every year. They've got to be doing something right."

Haymitch raises an eyebrow at him. "I think that has more to do with the training they get than anything they do."

"They can't all be that good," I say crossing my arms. "They don't have to work manual jobs."

Haymitch snorts. "And what? You think helping you mom with washing or carrying coal with your father qualifies you to go up against a Career whose trained their whole life? Wake up, girl. You're dreaming. Your best chance at living is to go and hide until it gets close to the end, and hope you don't get killed at the bloodbath."

I don't know if it's because he ignored me earlier or because he thinks I'm so useless, or both, but I decided I hate Haymitch.

"You won," I snap at him. "And you were from Twelve. Last time I checked no one trained you like a Career."

Haymitch rolls his eyes. "That's different."

"No, it's not," I say. "You used your skills to outsmart the other tributes. I can do that too. I work in the mines. I'm good with a pick-ax. If they have one of those in the arena, then I'm sure I could do some damage."

"I'm sure you think so," Haymitch says, brushing me off.

"I know so."

The escort makes a tiny noise beside me so I remember her presence. All of the rest of us turn to look at her.

"Speaking of skills and weapons," she says with a fake sense of chipperness ,"If there is a specific one you're good with, I would bring it up as often as possible. Especially in your interviews. It might give the Gamemakers some incentive to make sure that it's in the arena."

"Good," I tell her, shooting Haymitch a defiant look. "I'll make sure to do that."

I don't care what he or Shiloh thinks of me. I know I can go far in these Games if I try. If I get my hands on a pick-ax I could do some damage. I could bring District Twelve another victor. After all, If Haymitch can do it, I can. He doesn't think I can, and I look forward to proving that old drunk wrong.

 **Elm Halloway, 12, District Seven:**

I know not to cry. That's one of the first things people notice about tributes from their reapings and their train station photos. If a tribute is crying, the other tributes immediately know that their weak and mark them as targets in the arena. And as probably the youngest tribute in the Games, I can't afford to look any weaker than I already do. I'm already going to be a target. I have a greater responsibility to look strong and capable.

Somewhere after my goodbyes, on my way to the car, I realized just how low my chances were of making it out of that arena alive. No one younger than fifteen has ever won the Games, A twelve-year-old winning would be unheard of. It's just not possible. I can't beat out an eighteen-year-old, even if I did manage to make it long enough to fight one.

No. I've known since the moment that I was reaped that my best bet is making sure that I at least survive the bloodbath. That's my only goal. After that, I can only hope that whoever takes me out does it quickly. They'd have to be kind of sick to draw out the death of a twelve-year old. But the one thing I know from watching the Games is that people are definitely sick enough to do it. The Games always manage to find at least one psychopathic tribute.

The only solace I have is that I probably have the kindest District Partner in the entirety of the Games. Morgan is very sweet. From the moment, I got into the car, all the way until we boarded the train, Morgan made nice conversation with me. She didn't bring up the Games once and even managed to distract me a little bit until we saw the photographers. When we get onto the train she sticks with me and keeps the conversation going. And when we meet Blight, the massive and terrifying man who's supposed to be our mentor, Morgan graciously does all the talking. I just watch them. Blight looks a little bored. I guess he realized what our escort did the moment we were reaped. There's no potential between from either Morgan or I. We're from District Seven, one of the outlier districts, and neither one of us has the kind of strength, skills or hidden determination to win this thing.

Morgan's sweet. Sure, she's Seventeen, but she doesn't seem to have a mean bone in her body. There's no way she would seek people out to kill. I doubt she could even properly defend herself from an attack. The only thing she's got going for her is that she's pretty. She looks angelic with her light hair and eyes and sunny disposition. That could get her some sponsors, may-be enough to live a little while if she managed to survive the bloodbath, but that's unlikely.

I hate myself for thinking it, especially because she's been so kind to me, but Morgan has bloodbath written all over her. So do I.

District Seven got the short end of the stick this year when it comes to tributes, and from the look on Blight's face, our mentor knows this.

 **Grain Garner, 16, District Nine**

My district partner is a very strange boy. I was sure when he took the stage crying that he was one of those tributes who would die in the bloodbath. I mean he did play that part really well. He didn't just cry on that stage, he bawled.

But after a few minutes with him in the car, I'm almost sure he faked it. He's weepy in front of our escort but every time her back is turned, he gives me such a withering stare it makes me scared. There's no way someone terrified and weak would look at me like that. It was then in that moment, I knew. He was hiding something. I don't know what, but it's something.

Grant isn't as weak as he's letting on, and I shouldn't trust him.

Once we board the train, I had straight for my room. I plan on staying there until dinner. There's no need to spend any more time with Grant than necessary.

I lie in bed and cry for hours. This whole days has been never ending, and each minute was more stressful than last. I haven't even had a moment to myself since the reaping. Not one minute to process the fact that I have to go the Hunger Games. Chances are, I will die. In the history of District Nine, there's only been three winners. Two are alive. One is dead. I think the reason is that unlike some of the other outer Districts, like Seven, District Nine kids don't grow up using any kind of weapon. They only people who win from Nine are the ones who are so undeniably strong that they learn and do whatever they have too to win. As I cry into the soft, plushy pillow, I wonder if I can do that. Am I willing to do whatever I have to in order to win? I think so. I don't want to die in that arena, and if the other tributes are anything like Grant, killing them won't be as difficult as I imagined it would. I just have to hope there's enough weak tributes to balance it out.

I have no idea how long I laid there and cried for, but when my mouth and eyes began to feel to dry, I wander into the bathroom and try to figure out how to work the shower. Eventually I do, and the warm water feels good on my face and back. Then comes the horrible trauma of trying to decide what to put on. The dresser is full of clothes so nicely made and fancy, they make my reaping dress look like a dirty napkin. I settle on a matching corduroy shirt and pants and roll my sopping wet hair into a bun on the top of my head. My hair is so long that the bun ends up nearly as big as my hand, but I don't really mind. It doesn't matter what I look like until the tribute parade. No one besides the people on this train will see me, and I don't really care much what they think.

I sit on the edge of the bed in silence until one of the Capitol attendants fetches me for dinner. He doesn't say very much, but simply leads me to the dining car, where my escort, grant and an unfamiliar woman are waiting. There sitting amongst a table of food so massive and varied it almost makes me knees go weak. I know what it's like to be hungry and this display of food makes my stomach tighten greedily.

The woman, the one I don't know smiles, and flashes me a set of perfectly white teeth. Her hair is raven-black and pulled into a tight ponytail on the top of her head. She arches one of her thin eyebrows at me.

"You must be Grain," she says in a strange, melodic voice. It hits me then who she is. Alabaster Fredd, the other District Nine victor. She won about fifteen years ago, when she was eighteen. The other winner, Teddy Nox is much younger and always mentors the tributes. Alabaster mostly keeps to herself. No one's really seen her in years. No wonder I didn't recognize her. She's practically a legend.

"Ms. Fredd," I say formally as I sit down at the chair beside Grant. He gives me a dirty look when I do.

My mentor shakes her head. "Please, call me Ala. Considering what I'm here to help you do, there's no need for such formality."

'And what exactly are you here to help us do?" I ask her.

Ala and the escort both let out a little laugh, and even Grant seems to snicker.

"What?" I ask.

"My dear," Ala says, her tone slightly strangled. "I'm here to help you win."

And for some strange reason, I think I believe her. I know Ala's reputation. The infamous way she won., all of Panem knows how she won. If she can help me do that, there isn't a doubt in my mind that I have a chance.


	18. Preparations and Pageantry

Preparations and Pageantry:

 **Marcus Sparks, 14, District Three:**

We only have four winners in District Three, and all four of them one by outsmarting the other tributes. Not one of them was big or strong. Only their brains were.

Two are way too old to be of any help, but the other two Wiress and Beetee won much more recently and can actually provide some help. Wiress has gone little nuts since her win, but she's still brilliant underneath. I was glad to see she was joining Beetee in helping mentor us. I've never spoken to either of them before, but I've seen them around from time to time in this district, and they're always on tv during the Games. Just like all the other victors, I know their strategies, their strengths, and how they managed to win. The second we get a chance alone, I'm going to pick their brains clean and bounce all of my ideas off of them. From the moment I was reaped, I knew, their advice is the only ones I plan on taking. After all, they're the only ones I'll be talking too who have actually won. Everyone else is useless to me.

I didn't get much of a chance last night. I was forced to spend most of the night alone in my room until someone came to fetch me for dinner. At dinner, I did get to see both Wiress and Beetee, but Futura and my dope of an escort were both there too. I couldn't very well talk strategy and strengths in front of my district partner. She's my competition, just like everyone else.

So instead, we wasted an entire meal talking procedures and schedules. Things I already know from studying the Games so closely; beautification at the Remake Center, Tribute Parade, Training, Prep & Interviews, and then the Games. Futura clung to every word they told her and nodded along like it was the first time she had ever heard it. Like she hadn't spent the last fourteen years living in Panem, and watching the Games. She's either the biggest dope in the country or she's trying to suck up to the mentors. From the look of her, I'm going to go with dope.

I spent most of the meal in silence, simply watching the others interact. Occasionally Beetee would ask me a question about my work. It seems some of my teachers knew him and told him of how bright I am. He tells me he thinks that might help me in the arena, and I have to forcibly hold down my laughter.

My brains will help me in the arena? What a revolutionary thought. Maybe he won't be very helpful to me. I should probably stick to mentoring myself.

The rest of the dinner went just as poorly. I was allergic to practically everything on the table except the peas and the dinner rolls, making it just as bleak as dinners at home. My idiot of an escort apologizes over and over and tells me she will give the cook my dietary restrictions so that breakfast will go more smoothly. I almost roll my eyes.

"The arena's going to be pretty difficult for you, huh?" Futura says to me as she scoops herself another helping of stew.

I narrow my eyes at her, "Excuse me?"

Futura shrugs. "I just mean that you're allergic to a lot. Don't you think it will be difficult to find things to eat in the arena?"

I roll my eyes, "I'm allergic to things like peanuts, dairy, wheat, mushrooms and chocolate."

"That's a hefty list," Futura points out. "You're not a little worried?"

Now I'm positive that Futura is a dope. She won't make it past the cornucopia bloodbath.

I grip my fork tighter and shoot her a haughty look. "I highly doubt the things I'm allergic too, will be abundant in the arena. I should be fine with wild plants. Or were you expecting a four-course meal to be delivered to you every night?"

That shuts Futura up immediately and I smile to myself before I take another sip of water. Good. It's a little ironic that she of all people is criticizing the time I will have in the arena. Especially with those fluorescent orange glasses of hers. They'll practically glow in the dark in the arena, making her an easy target. Even if the Capitol took pity on her and tried to fix her eyesight, which they won't, it wouldn't be a hundred percent and poor vision is a dangerous disability when you're trying to avoid murderous tributes.

When dinner finally commences, I sit down to the watch the reapings, pen and paper in hand. I make two columns on the paper and label them; Strong and Weak. I will only three opportunities to size these tributes up before the Games; their reapings, training and their interviews. Everything I can learn now will help me later.

District One's tributes are pretty, flashy Careers. And they're siblings. They're sponsor-bait if I've ever seen it. I'm sure they've trained for this and are pretty strong, but those people tend to be arrogant and overconfident. But they are from one and probably do have skills and with Golden Hendricks as a mentor, they both have a good shot. I begrudgingly add them to the strong list.

Both of District Two's tributes look incredibly tough. I sigh as I add them to the strong column. I skip over our reaping and move straight to Four, but not before I add Futura's name to the weak column with pride. In four, there's also two Careers, which means they've both got skills. Although the girl looks all weepy when she gets onto the stage. The boy's only sixteen, it takes confidence and skill to volunteer at sixteen. I add the boy to strong column and the boy to the weak.

District 5's tributes both look like bloodbaths to me. I add them to the weak column. The girl from Six may fight her reaping but she has an injured arm. I add her to weak. The boy looks pretty strong and there's something in his eye that makes me think he might go far. I add him to the strong column.

District Seven, Eight, and Nine's tributes are all weak and get added to that column. District seven has a twelve-year-old, and the tributes from eight look underfed. The boy from Nine is especially weak. He bawled like a little baby when he took the stage. I add all of their names to the weak column.

The girl from ten is beautiful, and a mayor's daughter, which means she's untrained and a goner for sure. But the boy from ten? He's big. Strong too. You can tell from his stone-cold expression that he means business. I add him to the strong column.

The boy from Eleven is young too, but he's already pretty badly beaten. He's either a trouble maker or tough as nails. I decide to add him to the strong column but put a question mark beside his name. The girl's a goner.

Both of the tributes from Twelve look stronger than the usual skin and bones tributes twelve delivers, but still they're from twelve, which means they're useless. I quickly scribble their names into the weak category.

I look down at my list. Okay, I've got eight strong tributes and 15 weak ones. That's not so bad. I can work with that, especially if any of the Careers who look strong, are actually weaker than they appear. This is better odds than I've seen some years.

"Can I take a look at your list?" Futura asks from beside me. "I can't remember some of the names."

I clutch the paper to my chest to hide my chart from her and give her a dirty look.

"No," I tell her. "These are my notes. Get your own."

Futura raises her hands in front of her. "Okay, okay. Calm down. I'll make my own."

"Do that," I tell her and get up from the couch abruptly. Futura is an idiot if she honestly believed I was going to give her an all access pass to my thoughts and observations. I don't know where she got this ludicrous idea that we would be friendly, but it's not happening. I am the only one on this team. If District Three has a victor this year, it will be me.

I clutch my list tighter and head back to my room. I have charts and equations to make. Going over all of this will take most of the night, and I don't need any distractions.

At the end of the day, the Hunger Games are all determined by odds. And I can calculate odds.

 **Tyler Minroe, 15, District Six:**

Our mentor is clearly a morphling addict. I don't even know if they're trying to hide it at this point, because it's pretty clear to everyone in the room. Jameson Kirby was once a decently handsome guy who was in pretty good shape, but now? He's' unrecognizable. His skin is yellow and sagging, his eyes bug out of his skull. He looks like a skeleton. Even his long, fiery red hair, for which he became famous, now it's stringy and lifeless in a scraggly ponytail at the base of his neck. That sucks, it used to look awesome. I was kind of looking forward to seeing the dude look good. Not sad like this. I try figure out how long ago he won. Four maybe five years ago? Could it really have been that soon? Five years seems this guy into the shaking, quivering drug addict that sits in front of me. Still though, he knows his stuff. He gives us advice from the moment we meet him. It's less of us talking and more like him sporadically shouting tiny bits of information in between long pauses. Dude's weird, but he's already given me some good tips and I've only known him for a few minutes.

My district partner, Lincoln, is better at getting simple stuff out of him. He gets right on his level and seems to ask the right questions. I like Lincoln. He was nice to me at Dinner and in the car ride. He's a decent guy.

"Your arm," Jameson chirps quickly. He says it so fast I almost don't hear him. "You're injured."

He's twitching still, but his gaze is now focused solely on my arm. He see's what the audience sees. They know I'm going to lose before I even start.

I shrug, "Yeah. It's a little messed up, but I'm not too worried about it. I'm good with this one." I hold up my left hand. Lincoln eyes my arm with a strange expression, like he thinks I'm crazy for not knowing how it hurts my chances. And I do. I know it hurts my chances a lot, but unlike Lincoln, I know I won't be winning this thing anyway. There aint no sense in worrying about something you can't change.

"It's fine," I tell them both. "I'm here for a good time, right?"

"True, true." Jameson says and lets out a strange little giggle. I realize just how much the morphling has affected his brain. He's probably not going to be able to get the stuff now, and he'll be going through withdrawals soon. That sucks for Lincoln. Everyone knows good mentors make or break you. Having a drug addict on withdrawals probably not what Lincoln signed up for.

"Are you crazy?" Lincoln asks me. "You're not even going to try to win?"

Huh. Lincoln is tough then. He may have a decent chance at this thing after all.

"I'm not not going to try," I say casually. "But I'm being realistic about my chances here."

Lincoln shakes his head in disbelief. "You're insane. Actually insane."

I'm a little surprised at his reaction. Most tributes would love to hear that their district partner is basically giving up. That makes one led person to worry about in the arena, but not Lincoln. I guess he's a good person. I kind of hope he wins now.

 **Finn Landers, 16, District Four:**

Sedna is barely a Career.

I've known this ever since I started training at the academy, but it's never been clearer than when we're sitting on the train together. I know it's ridiculous to expect her to be as good as I am, but honestly? I expected a little more than this.

She spent most of dinner sitting quietly, barely listening to a thing our mentor had to say. She didn't even ask a single question. She just wats quietly and stares at her plate.

Seriously?

We have an all access pass to the brain of Cassidy O'Malley, a victor who almost never mentors, and Sedna chooses now to stay silent? That's just plain stupid. Not that I really expected any differently from her. After all, I'm the tribute who's got a decent chance this year. I'm the one the whole district is voting for. I'm the victor. Sedna's nothing more than a fisherman's daughter, whose too upset over the loss of a friend to focus on winning. Although if I were her, I'd at least try a little harder. This is embarrassing. At this rate, she won't make it top eight. Nothing's more embarrassing than that. Volunteers are always expected to make it to the top eight. Anything less is pathetic.

I don't even like Sedna as a person. She's dry and approachable. And not in a tough, threatening, 'I'll murder you later' kind of way. She's just boring. I sincerely hope she makes a decent training score, because there's no way her personality will sell anyone on her. She's not as charming as me. Or as attractive, frankly.

Cassidy seems to sense this too. She talks only to me at dinner, imparting wisdom and asking about my skills. She seems impressed that I have such good aim at spear throwing, and with the trident. My knot-tying skills are decent too, and that excites her. I go on and on and tell her about how I spend most of time training, and Cassidy hangs onto every word.

"You know," I tell Cassidy firmly. "I think that's what makes me the most qualified person to win. I don't waste any time working. I only train."

From across the table. Sedna makes her first noise all evening. A snort.

"Have something to add, do you Sedna?" I ask her, narrowing my eyes at her. Cassidy's bright green eyes dart across the table to look at her.

Sedna raises one of her dark eyebrows at me. Her skin is overly tanned and freckled from all of the sun exposure, and it makes her look at least three years older than she is. If she were tough, it might inspire fear, but she's not. So it makes her look washed out and useless.

"I think it's a little presumptuous to think like that," Sedna says dipping her spoon into the bowl of pudding in front of her. "Arrogant even. Don't you think?"

She's silent all night, practically an avox, and now she chooses to speak up? Only to undermine me? I grip the steak knife in my hand tighter and give her a scathing stare. "How so?"

Sedna takes a bite of her pudding and then gives me a long stare. Then she smirks. She actually smirks at me.

"I'm just saying, you don't know what will help you in the arena." She says. "I've spent half my life fishing, making nets, and hauling crates over my head. Those are skill. Training only takes you so far. Its arrogant of you to think like that."

I'm furious now. Our escort and Cassidy have gone silent now. They're watching us with careful eyes, afraid our little spat might turn to physical blows, and that they'll have to break it up. We are Careers after all. They practically expect this from us. Careers, and especially Career district partners, are expected to get along. Were in an alliance and we're supposed to act like it. That's the rule. But I don't really care. Sedna isn't like the other Careers. There's no way I'll trust her in the arena. I barely like her now.

"That's funny," I say evenly, stabbing the piece of beef in front of me.

"What is?" Sedna demands angrily.

I give her one of my classic full-lipped Finn smiles and take my time before I answer her. I want to make sure the gravity of what I have to say fully sinks in with Sedna.

"It's funny that you still think you have a chance," I tell her firmly.

Sedna's eyes narrow and her upper lips curves back over her teeth. Good. Let her get angry. I can work with angry.

"What?" I ask. "Are you remembering last week when you barely hit the target throwing knives, because I am."

"Say what you want," Sedna says shoving another spoonful of pudding into her mouth. "But at least I don't have to worry about annoying the other tributes to death with my arrogance"

"No you won't have to worry about that at all," I scowl. "You'll probably end up with a knife to the gut five minutes into the bloodbath"

"Only if you're the one throwing it," Sedna snaps. "Traitor."

"Alright," Our escort puts his hands up. "That's enough."

"Yes," Cassidy says. "Maybe the two of you should take a minute to calm down."

I ignore her. "Traitor? That the best you can come up with, Sed?"

I can see her anger pouring out of Sedna now. Her face is growing red and she's breathing too loudly. She's trying to appear calm and unaffected, but she's anything but.

"You know what I think is funny, Finn?" she says sharply. "The fact that you seem to think you have this in the bag, when you're younger than the rest of us Careers," She wipes her mouth carefully with her napkin and then smirks again. "Did you ever consider that maybe the academy let you volunteer at sixteen to get rid of you and your arrogant attitude? If they really thought you were gods gift to Panem, why not wait until your eighteen and really trained up right?"

Something inside of me snaps. Sedna thinks I'm not skilled? Oh, I'll show her how skilled I am.

Sedna reaches across the table to scoop herself another helping of pudding. Her arm is just in front of me, and I'm still tightly clutching the steak knife in my right hand. I slam it down as hard as I can on her and hear it as it goes through and sticks into the wooden table.

Everyone gasps at once and Sedna's eyes widen with surprise and terror.

"Finn!" our escort chides loudly in shock. Sedna only stares at the knife.

Of course, I didn't actually stab her. Just her shirt sleeve, pinning it to the table. That's where I was aiming anyway. If I had actually stabbed her, I would have been in trouble. This was better.

"I have excellent aim, Sedna" I say getting up from the table. "Remember that."

Sedna says nothing. She uses both hands to pull the knife up and free her shirt sleeve. I don't wait to be dismissed. Instead I head for my room, hoping I've made my point.

I hate Sedna. I can't wait to kill her. And now, we both know it.

 **Crickett DeGraw, 17, District Ten:**

This day has been the worst, most exhausting one I've ever experienced. Daddy was taken into the Justice Department for questioning, so I only got to say goodbye to Mom. And she spent the entire goodbye criticizing my father for embarrassing her when I was reaped. I was reaped for the Hunger Games and my mom's biggest concern is her social status. Sure, offering the entire population of District Ten money to take my place was wrong, but he did it to save my life. I think that's worth more than my mother's embarrassment. Then again, appearances have always meant more to her than I have.

I was so busying dealing with my mom, I haven't had a moment to process the fact that I was going to the Games, and I'm being accompanied by the only guy in the District I actually like. I always wanted an opportunity to get close to Gael, but this wasn't what I meant. Now, we'll both die.

When I get down to the car, Gael is waiting. We exchange pleasantries and then let Bellamy do most of the talking. When we get to the train station, Bellamy poses Gael and I beside each other for the photos. I know why she's doing it. With our dark hair, colored eyes, and tanned skin we look perfect together in the photos. Bellamy claps her hands togather and whispers "Stay a united front. It'll get you better sponsors" in our ears. We do as we're told and smile.

On the train, we meet our mentor.

Wilmer Townsend, is a haggard, balding man in his mid-forties who spends most of the time on the train flirting with our escort, Bellamy. He used to be one of the toughest guys in the district, but a diet of beer and bread and sitting on his couch has turned him into something of a joke. He barely acknowledges Gael or I, and simply talks to Bellamy, telling her story after story from his victory tour. As if he has no responsibility or obligation to prepare us for what's coming.

Gael and I sit beside one another on the thick velvet couch and listen to his stories, but every time one of us tries to ask a question or interject, Wilmer ignores us, focused on Bellamy. To her credit, Bellamy keeps trying to steer the conversation back to us, but Wilmer makes it difficult. He flirts so blatantly, I feel like Gael and I should excuse ourselves.

From beside me Gael stares at him blankly, as if he has no energy for this anymore. Wilmer is staring at Bellamy, telling her about District Two and pinching a piece of her red hair through his fingers. Bellamy laughs uncomfortably. The whole exchange reminds me of the way Romulus Thread treated me back home, and that fills me with an upsurge of anger.

"What do you think the chances of us getting any real help from this dolt?" I whisper to Gael.

Gael cracks a tiny smile. "Slim to none."

I frown. "Should I try again?"

"Might as well," Gael lets out a small sigh. "Our lives sort of depend on it."

I look over to Wilmer and see he still hasn't ripped his eyes away from our escort. I puff my shoulders and make a tough face in an attempt to make myself look more serious. Gael tries to hide his snigger. I raise an eyebrow at him.

"Sorry," he apologies, still chuckling. "Carry on."

I focus back on our mentor, who now seems to have added hand gestures to his story.

"Excuse me, Mr. Townsend," I say. He ignores me, talking louder and louder. Bellamy looks at me with apologetic eyes.

"Mr. Townsend," I repeat firmer.

He still ignores me, and it's Gael who gives me the pathetic look this time.

"This is not making me feel very secure about our chances in the arena," I say softly. "We need to have a good mentor to get sponsors."

"You're the mayor's daughter," Gael reminds me, "You'll have sponsors either way."

"But you still need some." I point out. To that, Gael seems to have no answer. And that reminds me that I have no choice but to act. Gael's life depends on this idiot, even if mine doesn't.

The glass in Wilmer's hand is shaking as he talks and it's spilling its contents on Bellamy's skirt and his pants.

That's enough for me. I get up from the couch and wrench the glass from his hands. I slam it down so hard on the coffee table, the crystal shatters. I didn't mean to break it, I only meant to wrestle it from him. But now the gesture makes it look like I'm more ballsy than I am. Maybe that will work to my advantage.

"HEY!" Wilmer roars, getting to his feet. He towers over me menacingly. "What the hell did you do that for, DeGraw!"

Gael has gotten to his feet now too. He's at my side, and since he's just as big as Wilmer is, it makes our mentor think twice before he shouts again.

"I thought it time you paid a little attention to us," I tell Wilmer.

"You're our mentor," Gael adds firmly. "I think you should probably be mentoring us, not flirting with Bellamy."

Wilmer rolls his eyes at Gael and gives me a dirty look. "What? You two are anxious to start talking about the Games. Think there's some kind of life-saving advice coming out of my mouth?" He lets out a dark laugh. "Well there's not. So if I were you, I'd find a cozy corner to curl up into and enjoy the few meals you've got left."

"Wilmer!" Bellamy chides. "That is deplorable. Apologize."

Wilmer shakes his head. "Not gonna happen. The sooner reality sinks in, the better. There's only so much I can do for them."

Gael looks furious, and I can feel the tears starting to form in the corners of my eyes. I wipe them before Wilmer and Bellamy can see them. This whole situation is bad enough without a mentor with a foul attitude.

"Oh, don't cry, Ms. DeGraw," Wilmer says crudely. "You were a mayor's daughter. You already had a fairer shake than anyone else that's been in this train. Be happy you at least got to eat most of your life."

I cross my arms tightly to keep from crying, and Wilmer rolls his eyes. Our mentor is supposed to be here to help us, not make this worse. My luck just keeps getting worse and worse.

I don't hesitate before I stomp off towards my bed car. There's no point in sitting around having my mentor berate me.

Before I get to the door, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I spin around furious, expecting to find Wilmer or Bellamy trying to say something to me. Instead, I find Gael. I wipe the tears away from my eyes quickly before he can see them. Gael doesn't say anything for a second. He just tucks some of his hair behind his ear. I can't help but notice how nice his hair is; dark, thick and wavy. It compliments his eyes so well. I blush, realizing I'm probably staring at him.

"Do you need something?" I ask quietly.

"I just wanted to tell you to forget Wilmer," Gael says quickly. "It doesn't matter what he thinks or says."

"He's our mentor," I remind him. "He's the only thing that keeps us alive in the arena. Without him, we're dead."

Gael shakes his head. "That's not true. We can look out for ourselves in there. And we get our own sponsors too. We just have to work together, as a team."

The idea of teaming up with Gael to do anything sounds like a good idea to me, but I don't want to look too eager.

"Like allies?" I ask.

"Yeah allies," Gael nods. "And friends. Sound good?"

For the first time since being reaped, I feel a little bit of excitement surge through me. If Gael and I are working together than we might have a decent chance at having one of us come home. And if not, at least we'll be together. That might make the Games slightly more bearable.

So I smile and nod. "Sounds good."


	19. The Remake Center

**AUTHORS NOTE: hey guys! Sorry there was almost a two week lag between updates. I was in the Hospital. But I'm fine now so I should go back to my speedy updating. Thanks for being patient. Enjoy!**

The Remake Center:

Lydia Light, 16, District Five: 

I thought the worst reaction I could have possibly gotten this week was from the photographers at the train station. Their audible horror and gasps at the sight of my burned face kept me up for half of the night. For some stupid reason, I thought that memory of the Games was going to be one that haunted me until my death.

I don't know I didn't think about the Remake Center. I must have been repressing it from my memory, because how could I have not known how bad this was going to be? After all, the entire purpose of the Remake Center is to take tributes and shape them into perfect Capitol versions of themselves. I should have known they'd be disappointed with me.

My escort was nervous the entire time when she dropped me off. I should have realized her twitchy reactions and quick answers were because she felt bad for me, but I was too exhausted and nervous to think about that. Somehow my crippling deformity slipped my mind when faced with the Games. I was reminded the second I met my Prep team. Three terrifying Capitol women with different unnaturally dyed hair circled me with their hands over their mouths as they regained their composure. The sight of my burned, blistered face had frightened them. Them with their genetically altered faces and pink dyed skin. They looked like candy colored monsters and still, my face was scarier. That's hard to swallow.

Eventually, the blue haired one-woman steps forward and takes my hand leading my to the steel table. The others follow suit and my escort says goodbye. For a few minutes I lay still while the three women circle me, talking in hushed voices. I know they're trying to whisper for my benefit, but it doesn't matter. I can still hear what they say.

"Should we call one of the surgeons?"

"No, it's too late for that, those are scars."

"Do we have any lotions or balms that might help."

"Not ones they'd use on a tribute."

"So what should we do?"

"The best we can."

The prep team immediately goes to work on my hair, and I let out all of the breath I've been holding in. Logically, I knew this was exactly what was going to happen, but some deep stupid part of me thought there was something in the Capitol that might be able to fix my face. I should have known they'd never waste in on a tribute. Not on someone this ugly.

Even my prep team, who clean tributes up for a living, were horrified by me. They know I'm a lost cause. I dig my nails into my palm to keep from crying.

"How do you feel about short hair?" the blue-haired girl women asks, blissfully unaware I overheard their terrible exchange.

I force a fake, half-faced smile. "Whatever you think." The woman beams and goes to work on my hair with a pair of clippers. I let them do whatever they want after that. I know it doesn't matter. I will still be hideous, and hideous tributes die without sponsors.

 **Gael Yule, 17, District Ten:**

The prep team is two women and one man. It's all of their first year as stylists for the Games, and they tell me they're very excited. I'm glad they're having fun at least. It seems cruel to point out that this isn't very fun for me. Instead I stay pleasant and answer any questions they have about life in District Ten. I've always found life to be eaiser and more enjoyable when you're nice to the people around you. After all, it's not these three people's fault I'm in the Games. There's no point in making them miserable too. Anyway, this is good practice for my interview. I have to find a way to make sure these Capitol like me. I talk with them for a long while, and find that they're actually decent people. They're complimentary too. One loves how green my eyes are. Another gushes about my tan and finds it very funny when I tell them it's just from being outside ranching. They all laugh at the idea of spending that much time outside.

"That must be how you got your skin like that too, huh Senia?" I ask my fuchsia skinned stylist. Senia blushes and giggles. "You are too funny, Gael."

"A sense of humor is important," Gideon, my only male stylist, tell me. "If you want to win, make sure you show that in your interview."

"Not that you have anything to worry about," Leila, the third stylist, says. "Not with a face like yours."

"I don't know," Gideon weighs. "Of course, our Gael here is very attractive, but have you seen some of the those boys from the Career district? Oof. I could just devour that boy from One. Oh! Or the one from Four!"

That perks me ears up. Gideon is gay? It must be more common here than in the Districts if he's talking about it so freely here. In the districts, especially rougher ones like Ten, it's not something we easily admit. Flora is the only person I ever told.

"I still think Gael is cuter," Leila tells me, squeezing my shoulder.

"Thanks Leila," I tell her. She smiles and then they set back to work.

It doesn't take them very long to clean me up. They trim my eyebrows and hair, and scrub the hard to reach dirt out from under my nails. Leila wanted to leave it, claiming it gave me a rougher more 'Salt of the Earth' look, but Gideon convinced her I'd probably find an oppritunity to get covered in dirt in the arena. For now at least, I should get to be clean. All of this goes by pretty quickly. Most of the time is spent waxing my chest, which makes me really worried about what I'll be wearing tonight in the Parade. And if the look of excitement on my Prep Team's face is any indication, I should be very, very worried.

 **Velvet Wilkinson, 15, District Eight:**

My prep team is nice, but most of them are barely five years older than me. Somehow District Eight's prep team all quit last year, leaving us with newbies. Not that I mind. It's nice that they're going through this for the first time. After all, it's my first time here too.

There's two women, Alba and Drusilla and one man; Tellum. They're very chatty, and spend the entire time they wax my body and cut my nails, asking me questions. They tell me they thought I was poised on stage and that counts for something. I guess that's the best compliment someone from District Eight can get, considering. I'm really glad now that I kept it together. Who knows what they would be saying if I had cried.

Drusilla tells me she adores the dark red color of my hair, and claims it's so healthy there's nothing they need to do to it.

"Are you worried?" Alba asks, "about your hair in the arena?"

I blink in surprise. "Should I be?" I ask her.

Alba shrugs. 'Oh, I don't know. I just thought maybe because it's so bright and distinct, it might be make it easier to spot you. But that might not be the case."

"Oh," I say softly. I hadn't thought of that. Now I'm worried about it.

The prep team moves onto my eyebrows. Apparently they seem way too overgrown to their liking and they spend almost an entire hour carefully trimming and shaping them until they are two perfect, full arches.

"You have very nice eyelashes," Alba tells me as she combs them with some kind of strange wand that coats them with dark, coal covered liquid.

"Yes," Drusilla agrees. "We won't even need the fake lashes. In fact, your eyes are so big I don't want to put very much makeup on them at all."

"Is that a good thing?" I ask her hesitantly. All three members of my prep team burst into laughter at that, and nod.

"Very good," Tellum assures me. "As are your cheekbones."

"That's probably just because I'm underfed," I joke lightly. Every part of my face and body is a little thinner and more sunken in than I would like. My cheekbones especially always look to me like they're waiting to break through the skin on my face. Then again, the food in the Capitol is so rich and fatty that after a week here, I might actually be able to gain a little weight.

"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," Tellum warns. "The rest of us would kill for bone structure like that."

I don't say anything else to them after that. It's hard to answer someone when they think that starvation is a gift. I try to remind myself these people don't really understand. It's not their fault.

Tellum covers my lips in berry covered lipstick and then they send me off to meet my stylist.

They usher me through a steel door into a room where a young woman waits. She's Capitol, that much is very obvious from her long, shocking blue hair. But the rest of her face is surprisingly toned down. She wears dark red lipstick and some eyeshadow, but neither of them is as garish as the prep team. Her nose is thin and unaltered. Her eyes are a normal blue. She's young too, just like my Prep team. She can't be more than a few years older than Seam. I stop thinking that immediately. If I think about Seam or Tweed, I will break down. Instead I focus back on my stylist. She strides toward me and I get a good luck at what she's wearing. It's a simple sleeveless floor-length tan dress. Simple, but elegantly made, with fine gold thread. It's the kind of dress I would have made if I had fabric like that. Suddenly, my thin, cotton robe makes me feel insecure.

"Velvet?" the stylist asks. I nod and she smiles. "I'm Tilly. Nice to meet you."

She goes straight in to hug me tightly and I let her. Then she steps back to observe me from a distance. She circles me carefully and I suddenly feel as though I should fill the silence.

"I like your dress," I tell her. "I make dresses at home, and I would've loved to make on like that."

. "Thank you," Tilly says. She stops circling me and then asks. "Did you make your reaping dress too? The white one with the peter pan collar?"

I blink, surprised she knows what my reaping dress looked like. I mean, even if she watched the reapings, its surprising she remembered what I was wearing. The again, she is a stylist.

I nod eagerly, "Yeah. From some extra fabric, I had lying around."

Tilly smiles carefully and then raises an eyebrow. "That extra fabric happened to look a lot like Peacekeepers uniforms."

All of the color drains from my face immediately and cold fear run down my spine. She noticed that? Does that mean the other Capitol people did? Will I be trouble in the arena.

"Relax," Tilly says holding up a tiny hand. "I doubt anyone noticed but me. It can be our little secret, okay? Personally, I thought it was brilliant work. I'm even more impressed that you made it yourself."

"Thank you," I tell her quietly.

Tilly smiles. "No problem. How about you and I have some lunch, and then we can take a look what you'll be wearing tonight and discuss some ideas you might have for your interview dress, okay?"

It's the best offer I've had since being reaped. And if I am going to die in that arena, at least I will have gotten do it after talking fashion with a real Panem stylist.

 **Aurelia Vespillo, 18, District Two:**

"Just a few inches? Pretty please?" My stylist, Wilhelmina begs, her orange eyes sparkling.

"No," I tell her firmly. "If you come anywhere near me with those pair of scissors, I will bury them in your arm."

"You're impossible, Aurelia," Wilhelmina sighs, turning back to the lunch spread in front of us. "And just when I was starting to like you too."

"I still like you Wilhelmina. But I won't if you try anything else. I'm fine, alright? Not everyone needs to look like you do."

Wilhelmina tosses her perfectly curled brown hair behind her shoulder and rolls her eyes. We've spent the better part of an hour engaged in an argument about cutting my bangs. She claims they're too long and uneven, that the audience won't trust me if I've got that much hair in my eyes. I refused to let her cut them no matter how much she begged. I already spent half the morning arguing with the prep team about them. They're lucky I let them wax my legs, let along touch my hair. They demanded I let them trim a few inches of the bottom of my Auburn hair, so I wasn't letting them anywhere near my bangs. I like my hair like this. I don't want the Capitol to turn me into some stupid, girly version of myself. I like looking tough. Plus, I've already seen the reapings of the other two Career girls, and they're both girlier than I am. One's a curvy, silver-haired blond that looks like she's better suited for a fashion magazine than the arena, and the other's tall and exotic looking with freckles and wild, curly hair. There's no point with trying to pretty me up with those two around. I'll settle with looking scary. That's why people will like me. No one's going to sponsor me because they want to date me.

But still Wilhelmina is trying. I appreciate that at the very least. She must see potential in me if she's willing to risk this verbal sparring match in order to get her way. I respect her for that.

When I was first led into the room to meet my stylist, I thought I was going to hate her. I've hated everyone I've met so far except for my Mentor, Brutus, but he's a big tough, no bull-shit taking kind of guy. He won the Games and he's from my district. I already knew I'd get along with him. But the Capitol people? I've despised them all.

So when I walked into the room and saw Wilhelmina, with her perfect hair, makeup and altered eyes, I thought she was going to drive me crazy. I figured she'd be as stupid and vapid as the escort they stuck me with. It was a pleasant surprise to find someone with the dark sense or humor that Wilhelmina has. We actually get along pretty well.

"Don't you want to look pretty?" she begs. "I could do SO much with a face like yours."

I grab one of the grapes from the table in front of me and toss it at her. I expected it to bounce off her nose, but it doesn't. Wilhelmina reaches out and stabs the grape mid-air with the scissors in her hand. She smirks back at me.

I raise an eyebrow at her. "That was good. Trying to take my place in the Games, are you?"

She shakes her head. "Not a chance. You're insane for volunteering."

"I'm going to win," I tell her.

Wilhelmina nods and leans back in her chair. "I don't doubt it."

She spins the scissors around one of her fingers and then looks back at me with a devious grin.

"I'll make a deal with you," she says carefully, still smirking. "You let me cut an inch or off your bangs and I'll let you wear pants in the tribute parade tonight."

I narrow my eyes at her. She knows just how terrified I was to end up in one of those skimpy, glittery skirts they often put girls from District Two in. The idea of wearing pants is just calming enough to get me to agree.

"You fight dirty," I say, annoyed.

Wilhelmina smiles, "Welcome to the Hunger Games."

There's a minute of silence as Wilhelmina smiles at me, knowing she's found the one thing that will make me give in.

"One inch," I warn her. "Anything more and I'm cutting it off your hair."

Wilhelmina claps and gets to her feet. "You won't regret it."

"You swear I can wear pants?"

"I swear."

I sigh as I feel the scissors creep back against my forehead. This right here, I swear will be the hardest part of the Games.

 **Elm Halloway, 12, District Seven:**

The Capitol people are scary. I think I'd rather be placed in the arena right this very second with all twenty-three other tributes than be faced with my prep team. They say there's not much to do with me since I'm so young, and after the cut my hair they just talk about the Games; asking me questions and telling me about their favorite arenas. The whole thing is terrifying. I just wish they'd stop talking about it. It's not as if any of this is helping me. They know I don't have a chance at winning. I don't have a chance of making it past the Cornucopia, so these tips aren't doing very much. Oh, tell me again how Golden Hendricks hid in a bush so she could bedhead the boy from Ten? Right. Like I would ever, or could ever, do that.

My stylist is even worse. He's an aging man, but his features have been plucked and tightened to to look younger. The result is scary. His hair is lime green and covered with yellow feathers. When we have lunch, he tells me all about how he wishes he had a better district. When he finds out I've never used an ax, he's really disappointed.

"Why couldn't I have gotten District Two?" he complains as he shovels more stew onto his plate. "District Two's tributes are always older and good-looking."

I don't know whether I should apologize or not, so I shove an entire helping of bread into my mouth so I don't have to answer. My stylist spends the rest of the time discussing my costume for the tribute parade. I don't care what it is as long as I don't have to carry anything. My palms always sweat when I'm nervous, and I have a bad feeling I am going to be very nervous tonight.

 **Grant Blunt, 14, District Nine:**

I despise my prep team. These insipid people insist on removing every hair from my body that isn't attached to my head. After one removal of the waxing strip, I was ready to bury my thumbs in their eye sockets.

Their conversation is mindless, their appearance is hideous and they are directly responsible for me sitting in this chair right now. I don't see the point in pretending to be weak and teary-eyed here. The other tributes are nowhere to be found so I don't have to put on that show. I don't care if these people know I'm capable. Maybe they'll even tell their rich Capitol buddies. That could be a good way to get sponsors.

I suffer through the few hours with the prep team by insulting them every chance I get. Even despite the verbal abuse, they seem unaffectedly cheery. It only makes me hate them more.

My stylist is also an idiot. Her name is Glinda, and she has short spiky hair and an entire ear full of tiny silver hoop earrings. Literally the entirety of her ear lobe is covered with the stupid rings. She goes on and on about how she wants to do coordinating costumes with me and Grain. Every idea she suggests is so annoying and predictable that I want to rip the earrings from her ear. I don't answer when she talks and when she demands an answer from me, I say something rude.

Eventually gets annoyed and starts to chastise me, claiming she's going to have a 'discussion' with my escort. I tell her if she does, I'll bury my fork in her hand. She's quiet after that.

Good. Does she not realize who she's talking too? Sure she's from the Capitol but she's still only a stylist. As soon as these Games are over, I will be a victor. I'll have enough money and influence to make sure she's not only fired, but that she never goes near the Games ever again.

 **Melody Twig, 16, District Eleven:**

Apparently, I have a tough face. At least that what's my prep team and stylists agreed on from my reaping. They claimed someone with a face as tough as mine, shouldn't be hiding behind my hair. So what did they do? They chopped it all off. Every last inch. Every last braid. They left only a bare fuzzy layer of hair on the top of my head. Hymm spent so much time carefully braiding my hair for the arena only to have these people chop it all off without even asking. I hope Hymm will know it wasn't my decision when she see's it on the television tonight. This will be hard enough without having to worry about my best friend being hurt.

My prep team continues the charade my coating every ounce of my face is makeup until I'm hardly recognizable as the same person. They've made me look years older.

"This is so fun!" one of the green-colored women says to me. "I've never got to work on someone with skin this dark before."

I sigh. How ignorant can these Capitol people be? Is this really something she thought was appropriate to say?

"Good for you," I say sarcastically as she paints another coat of gold shimmer across my eyelids.

Some small part of me hopes at the very least that they can make me look someone beautiful enough to warrant sponsors. After all, I don't want to die. And pretty people get good sponsors. Everyone knows that.

That makes me wonder about Bale. Will his prep team know enough to hide his bruises and injuries? I hope so. I feel so bad for him. It doesn't seem fair that he should be penalized in the parade and interviews by something Peacekeepers did. As my prep team finishes me up. I hope that Bale's know what they're doing.

He deserves that much.

 **Sedna Dyan, 18, District Four:**

I'm very chatty with my prep team. I figure that's the best way to get exactly what I want from them. It's much easier to get people to do things for you when they like you. I learned that from my father. The people in our District adore him. They'll do anything he needs, no matter what, and why? Because he's kind. He makes sure people like him. I intend to do the same.

I ask my prep team about their social lives. I inquire about their familes. I answer any questions they have about me or my life, no matter how private or prying they are. When they finally start to work on me, I can tell they're charmed. That's when I confide in them what I need from tonight.

I tell them that my only goal is to look infinitely more attractive than my district partner, Finn. After his little display last night, and almost stabbing me, I know I have to outshine him today. He needs to know who he's messing with, and I can think of no better way than making the Capitol people adore me.

My prep team cheers at my request and ensure me that they can do that no problem. After that, I close my eyes and let them work. I trust them.

It's a few hours later, after all of the scrubbing, trimming, plucking g and applying that they show me my reflection in one of the giant, sparkly mirrors. The Sedna that looks back at me is better than I could have ever imagined. My green eyes are lined with black, and turquoise making my green eyes look like emeralds. My lashes are thick and dark, swiping across my cheekbones when I dare to look down. My skin is perfectly tan and glowy, with emphasize on my rose-colored cheeks. My lips are pouty and pink. They have turned me into the most stunning version of myself. The girl who looks back at the mirror is terrifying beautiful, unapproachable and almost inhuman. It's exactly what I needed.

Good Luck, Finn, I think. Good luck looking better than this.

Tonight, the entire eyes of the Capitol will be on District Four, but they won't be looking at Finn.

All eyes will be on me. That will infuriate him. His little steak knife bit seems so childish now. He can pretend to stab me as many times as he wants. I'll be too busy stealing all of his sponsors.

 **Lincoln Nash, 16, District Six:**

I suffered in silence while my prep team worked on me. They plucked my eyebrows, shaved my chest and even put clear polish on my nails. All things my brother and sister would have mercilessly made fun of me for if they had seen. I don't even think Jetta has ever even done this much to herself, let alone Otto. But still, out of politeness and boredom, I let my prep team do whatever they wanted to me. I even let my stylist spend an hour perfectly tousling my hair, but this? No. I can't do this.

My stylist has decided to spend lunch giving me a sneak peak of my costume for tonight and it's made me go weak with embarrassment. I can't wear this.

"Don't you love it?" My stylist, Reilyne asks holding it up again. "I think it's divine."

I have no words. I cannot wear this. The entire country will be watching me tonight. I will be the laughing stock of Panem.

"I…uh.. it's.." I stumble looking for a way to show my stylist just how horrifying it is.

"The perfect outfit." she claps. " I knew you'd love it."

The perfect outfit? The costume she is clutching was probably once a grey jumpsuit, not unlike the ones we wear at home, but this one has been mutilated. The sleeves have been ripped off and the pants have been cut to be very, very short. Like halfway up my thigh short. That's no even addressing how tight it is. Or the fact that she wants me to wear it with a tight white tank top underneath. It's embarrassing. Why doesn't she just make me go out there naked and covered in engine grease? It's basically the same thing.

I am going to be the laughing stock of Panem. Who cares if I win now? I could be the richest person in the district and I will still never live this down.

Oh god, my father is going to see this. He and Otto will spend at least an hour making fun of it. And Jetta? Ugh.

This is going to suck.

 **Tyler Minroe, 16, District Six:**

Why is the idea of being a tomboy so hard for some people to understand? I like my hair short, messy and spiky. I like that my brows are almost as thick as my brothers. I like my nails short and broken, bitten down almost to the nub. My mother never understood that. It seems my Prep team and stylist are having trouble understanding that too.

They spent the first half hour of my time in the Remake Center telling me the Head Gamemaker wasn't approving any 'corrective procedures' for this Games, meaning my arm would have to stay broken and useless. I just shrugged at that. It wasn't very surprising. My arm makes me weak, and the Gamemakers love weak tributes. I mean someone's gotta die in the bloodbath, am I right? Might as well be me.

That news was fine. But when they tried to clean me up and make me look like a nice, pretty girl from District Six? I threw a fit that rivaled the one I threw at my reaping. I kicked, screamed and scratched until eventually some giant avoxes came and held me down so that my prep team would wax me, steal my eyebrows and style my hair with tiny silver hair pins. They even painted my nails pink. Those bastards.

Being reaped with the Hunger Games? I can deal with that. But painting my nails? That's unforgivable. I'm going to make these Capitol people pay.


	20. The Tribute Parade

The Tribute Parade:

 **Maia Boyle, 18, District One:**

I don't know what got into Brandi today, but he's actually questionably kind to me, which for him, is very out of character. He usually only acts like to that me when he needs something. But so far, he hasn't asked. That doesn't mean it isn't coming. With Brandi, I'm always very careful. As siblings, we have two speeds. We're either so in sync we don't fight at all, or we can't stand one another. It usually comes out of jealousy; the way thins usually do with twins. We're both talented, beautiful and worthy tributes, but we both want to be the best.

Before the reaping came around, we usually got along decently. Of course, we annoyed one another, but we were united in how much better we were than everyone else. I wasn't afraid to admit that every girl my age was jealous of me, and Brandi wasn't afraid to admit they all wanted to sleep with him.

Things didn't change until the reaping started t get near. Ever since we realized we were literally being pit against one another by our father, things got shaky between my twin and I

I was willing to ignore all of the politics. Probably because I knew I was going to win. But Brandi? He had his own, ridiculous idea of how to act. Starting about a week before the reaping, he started being overly condescending, critical and dismissive of me. I have a hunch it's because he knows I'm technically better than him. I score better at the academy and work twice as hard as he does. But Brandi is charismatic and charming. He has a way of making people like them that I never had. Sure, I can make people jealous of me, or be attracted to me. But like me? That's always been a source of trouble for me. And Brandi knows that. In fact, he exploits it. Like without our mentor, Golden. There's no obvious reason for her to be favoring Brandi over me. In districts where one tribute is clearly stronger than the other, I understand that approach. But with us? We're both highly trained Careers. Either one of us has a decent shot, but still Golden gravitates toward Brandi. I know I can destroy the other tributes, but If I want a chance at beating Brandi, I have to make the Capitol love me, with or without Golden's help. Not that it will be all that hard. One look in the mirror confirms everything I've known my whole life. I'm beautiful. And oh does the Capitol love beautiful tributes.

That has been my plan for the last twenty-four hours; focusing solely on blowing everyone out of the way with adoration from the Capitol. But now Brandi is coming around being brotherly, and it's messing with my head. Maybe I shouldn't be focusing so much on trying to beat him right now. I only have to worry about that when the time comes. When Brandi and I are the last two left, which I'm sure we will be. For now, at least, I should encourage his kindness. We'll get further if we're cordial. After all, we know each other so well, we're the perfect allies. We can rule the Career Pack. I won't worry about destroying Brandi until he is my only competitor. For now, at least, I can focus on being his district partner. And his twin.

"You look very nice in the costume, Maia," Brandi says as we ride the elevator down the ground floor of the Remake Center. "It will be hard to look away from us tonight, huh?"

From beside us, Golden raises on of her perfect eyebrows and our escort nods appreciatively.

"Of course she does," both of our stylists agree.

Brandi's comment floors me, but I can recognize he's at least being nice. Even if he does have an ulterior motive. I have to return the gesture. I need to play this game and strengthen our alliance.

"I think that was the point of all of this," I say overly dramatic, happily lifting my sleeve to show off the row of gemstones. "Although personally, I think we both outshine every diamond they put on us."

Brandi chuckles. "Well, dear sister, we can only ask so much out of the costumes."

"No one will be able to take their eyes off of you!" Brandi's stylist assures us.

"As if they have a choice," I tell her brazenly, rolling my eyes. So far, I've found the prescense of the stylists highly annoying. They have the most beautiful tributes in the Games. Their job is already done for them. All they have to do is pick out equally stunning clothes. Not add their two-sense in. The stylist doesn't have a chance to say anything else. The elevator doors open and we take a step out.

The ground floor of the Remake center has been transformed into a posh, horse stable. Twelve golden chariots and horses sit in wait, while the tributes, mentors, escorts and stylists from each district crowd around them. Only about half of the tributes are already here, but the ones that are stare jealously at Brandi and I as we pass. Not that I can blame them. Our stylists did a fantastic job.

They clearly took their influence from District One and truthfully, Brandi and my beauty, because the costumes are very indicative of who we are and where we come from. Both Brandi and I were silvery tunics and matching tights. The color is perfect for our creamy skin tones and white hair. We look like angels, or demons. Either way, gloriously beautiful.

The tunics themselves are covered in hundreds of tiny sparkling diamonds and gemstones, giving us a luminous, glowing quality. From a distance, it almost looks like we are the diamonds. Very fitting for the children of a diamond cutter. We both also wear ornate crowns littered with diamonds. Our stylists assured us she wanted us in crowns.

"Victors wear crowns," she told us. "And I'm positive, one of you will be victor this year."

It's the perfect metaphor. Every single person from Panem to District Twelve will see what Brandi and I look like as victors. They will know this whole thing is over before it even starts. I've always had the perfect head for a crown.

We also wear our tokens. Brandi's cuff is gold, so it clashes horribly with the costume, but I assume he wears it to show off the large diamond it has on it. I resist the urge to roll my eyes at that. It's an eye sore, especially in this outfit, but I don't say anything to him. I'm trying to be nice.

My opal necklace, however, is white and crystalized. It hangs from my neck so beautifully, looks like it was always supposed to be there. I wonder if some of the Capitol citizens will already be wearing opals. After seeing me with mine at my reaping, I'm sure Opals have practically sold out here. If I win, the price will skyrocket and copy-cat knockoffs will be sold on every corner of the Capitol, just like with every Victor's token. I see some of the tributes from the outlying districts eyeing it jealously as I pass. Good, I think. Let them see what I have. The entire audience will be staring at it too.

By the time, we mount the chariot, Golden is going on and on about how perfect we look. Brandi thanks her and winks and Golden giggles. Again, I resist the urge to say anything. This blatant flirting between them is getting ridiculous. Why don't they just go at it right now? It's not as if they're being subtle. I'm pretty sure that it's against the rules of the Games, but it's not like anyone will question them. They're from District One. Whatever, I don't have time to worry about that right now. Right now, I have to focus on being unforgettable.

I catch a glimpse of myself on the shiny handle bar of the chariot, and breathe a sigh of relief when I see my reflection.

I've got nothing to worry about.

 **Finn Landers, 16, District Four**

Sedna knows she's going to lose. That much is clear. Why else would she have had her stylists be that heavy handed with her makeup. They've done her up so much, that without her hair I doubt you'd even be able to recognize her as the same person in the arena. Most female tributes save that kind of sex-appeal driven desperation for the interviews. Why? Because it's a last-ditch effort. What does it say when you go out in the tribute parade looking like that? I'll tell you what it says. It says "Look at me! Look at me! I'm not tough, talented or capable enough to win without depending on sponsors who hope they'll have a chance with me when I win! Ignore my training score, instead focus on my full lips or my cleavage!" It's pathetic, and the fact that Sedna is trying it, only makes me hate her more.

She gives me a dirty look when she and our mentor, Cassidy show up at the chariot. We're both dressed as some kind of fish, wearing blue shorts and tank tops covered in shiny, fish scales. They're modest and make a show of our naturally tanned, freckled skin. Our eyes are both colored and pop against the color. But unlike Sedna, my attractiveness is natural and easy-going. People will know I'm good-looking because I am, not because I had to scream it at them. Sedna doesn't look beautiful, she look's unapproachable. And who wants to sponsor someone unapproachable?

"Hey Sedna," I say evenly. "Did you leave any makeup for any of the other girls, or use it all for yourself."

Sedna rolls her eyes. "Do not even look in my direction, Finn or I swear to god I'll-"

"You'll what?" I ask, cutting her off. "Bat your eyelashes at me? Oh, I'm shaking, really."

Sedna's eyes narrow and I can feel the anger of her next sentence before she even utters it, but Cassidy doesn't let her. She steps between us, and gives us both one of the nastiest looks I've ever seen.

"Enough," Cassidy seethes. "I get it, you two don't like each other. But guess what? Tough. Tonight, is about impressions and you two will show up as happy, beautiful tributes from District Four, or you will be on your own in that arena."

Sedna looks downright furious and turns away from Cassidy and I, her expression turning deadlier by the second.

"I'm serious," Cassidy says. "You will wave and blow kisses and do whatever you have too. You want to fight? Fine. But save it for the Games."

She doesn't say anything else and flits off. I don't even give it a second thought. Pissing off Sedna is just for fun. I'm actually bored. I know I'm going to win. I don't need to stare around at the other tributes like they're all doing. I've seen their reaping's, I know what I'm up against. And I know I will dominate. For now, my priority will be to tear down Sedna. Because what's a win unless she truly loses.

Sedna slides as far as she can from in the Chariot as it starts to move, her nails digging into the handle bar.

"If one single part of your body touches me," she swears, narrowing her eyes.

I roll my eyes. "Don't worry, I wouldn't want to be covered in the ten pounds of desperation you've got caked on your face."

Sedna gives me a dark glare. She holds it just until our Chariot pulls out of the stable and into the city center. The second it does, she breaks into a wide, blissful smile for the audience.

 **Grain Garner, 16, District Nine:**

My costume is itchy.

The stylists dressed Grant and I in suffocatingly tight pants and tops covered entirely in stalks of grain and wheat. The stuff comes up way to high and keeps itching my neck and ankles. Not to mention with my hair, it makes me look entirely one color. Grant's hair is brown and has some red in it, so he looks better in the costume than I do. Not that I care. I've been avoiding Grant. I don't want to talk to him anymore than I have too.

When we get on the elevator in the Remake Center, the tributes and mentors from District Eleven are already in there. Both of the tributes stare back at us, just as we look at them. But we say nothing. Just like us, the girl is older than the boy. I recognize her from the reaping, though now all of her hair has been cut off. But that's hardly what I'm looking at. I remember the boy from his reaping, and he's just as badly beaten as he was then, though it looks like his swollen eyes might be opening a little. I hope it heals by the time the Games start. Then I remember, he's my competition, and I hope it doesn't.

I came to the realization last night, that if I ever want to see home again. If I ever want to live to be another year older, I have to focus on nothing but winning these Games. And if that means I have to betray a few people or even kill them, I'll do it. I want to go home.

Both the district Eleven tributes are wearing overalls and plaid shirts with bandanas around their necks. They're dressed as farmers. That's unoriginal, that's what District Eleven tributes wear almost every other year. Their stylists must not care very much about them.

The girl is standing right beside me. Her eyes keep darting sideways to catch a glimpse of me, and then darting back before she thinks I notice.

When we get off the elevator, we're ushered to our chariot. Grant has resumed his act, and now stares at all of the tributes with wide, fearful eyes. Or maybe he is really scared. I don't know. I also don't care.

I scan the tributes and get my first real look at all of them. They all stand with their mentors and District partners, their eyes only scanning the others. The tributes from Districts One, Two, and Four as usual look just as scary and competitive as usual, and their costumes are the most ornate. Great, they'll be Capitol favorites before they even open their mouths or get a training score. How am I supposed to get sponsors when I'm dressed like a giant wheat stalk? I shake my head. No, I can't afford to think like that. I just have to go out there and make an impression. That and a good training score might be enough to get me home.

 **Junez Croster, 16, District Eight:**

It's like the stylists blatantly favor the female tributes when it comes to the tribute parade. I mean seriously. Only the girls ever look good in these stupid, flashy outfits. Every single one of them is tight or skimpy. What are they thinking? Sequins and glitter, cut offs, animal prints, feathered headdresses, there's all of this and more on the tributes this year. A quick scan around the ground reminds me that I don't have it nearly as bad as some of the other tributes, but it doesn't make me hate my outfit any less.

I almost slammed my stylist's head against the table when she showed it to me. It's ridiculous. It took twenty minutes of reminding me that I could punished for not 'cooperating within the rules of the Games' before I even put the stupid thing on. Now that it is, I can't wait for the moment I can rip it off and burn it.

It's not even original. District Eight makes textiles, so they put me in a skintight, long-sleeved black jumpsuit that comes up high on my neck. It's covered in thick, random white stitching that stretches across the whole thing. It literally looks like they gave children a bunch of thread and told them to go to town. I've seen toddlers in Eight who could sew straighter lines. Maybe that was the point? They really want the audience to see it? Either way it's stupid, and way too tight. I feel like I'm on god damn display. The black leather belt and knee-high boots aren't much better. The leather is tight and too new, squishing me inside it.

Velvet's costume is identical to mine, except her jumpsuit is white, with black thread. She seems to like it. She keeps running her fingers over the thread like it soothes her. Maybe it does. She did work in the factories sewing. I guess it would make sense that she likes it. It makes me hate it a little less, knowing she likes it. Unlike some of the other tributes here, her face is makeup free. I can't help but think it doesn't matter whether or not they put makeup on her. Her hair's so red, people won't have any trouble recognizing her.

No one will have any trouble recognizing me either, but for a very different reason. With my cut eyebrow and permanent grimace, I look terrifying. There will be no confusing me with any nice tributes. I look mean. I guess I am.

Our mentor, Cecelia stands beside us, while we stand in the chariots, one hand on her small baby bump. I don't care what Velvet thinks about it. I know we're disadvantaged because our mentor is pregnant. No real sponsors are going to take her seriously. They're going to think she's weak, and if we do get any sponsors, they'll be pity sponsors.

"How are you guys feeling?" Cecelia asks again. "Nervous?"

"A little," Velvet admits, she's twirling a long silver necklace through her fingers. It must be her token.

"And you Junez?" Cecelia asks. She looks terrified as she asks. Not that I can blame her. I've ignored her this entire time, only answering questions when directly asked, and skipping our meals together. And because of this, she clearly favors Velvet. Which I understand, she's nicer than me. No one wanted to deal with moody, brooding Junez back in District Eight. It doesn't surprise me that no one does here either. The only person I've talked to this entire time is Velvet, and that's the only person I plan on talking too. She's nice to me, for whatever reason and I already know her, so killing her would suck either way. But new people? No way. I'm not here to make any friends or allies. I plan on ignoring everyone that isn't from District Eight. Which means I probably have to be a little nicer to Cecelia.

"I just want this whole thing to be over," I complain grumpily.

"It will be," Cecelia assures me. "But since you have to do it, I would make sure that the audience remembers you. Actually, scratch that. Make sure they like you. First impressions are everything."

"That's impossible," I tell her. "No one likes me. Let alone on a first impression."

Cecelia sighs, "Well, try your best, Junez. That's all I can really tell you."

I snort. Right, like it's easy or something. She obviously doesn't know me at all.

She whispers another piece of advice to Velvet, squeezing her arm comfortingly and then she takes a step back to stand with the stylists.

"What did she tell you?" I ask Velvet. She's staring straight forward, her wide eyes focused on the Chariot in front of her.

"To smile," Velvet says, rolling her eyes. "You're not the only one who doesn't make friends easily."

"You?" I snort. "Right. I always see you around the district with your friends."

"Tweed is my only friend and I've known her since she was two," Velvet tells me. "And sometimes her brother," She blushes a little, some color rising to her cheeks. "But that's it."

I watch her for a second, biting her bottom lip, and I don't say anything else. I don't know if she's angry or nervous, but either way I don't think it's worth irritating her more. She's the only person here who won't be aiming knives at my back.

It ends up not mattering. The doors to the city center open, and the Capitol citizens start to scream.

 **Crickett DeGraw, 17, District Ten:**

We look adorable, Gael and I. I wouldn't be surprised if both of us walk away with sponsors tonight. We look that memorable.

I knew it was a good idea mentioning Gael and I's new alliance to our stylists. They obviously listened to what I said, because they dressed us in coordinating costumes. I was a little worried when I got to the Capitol that they would dress me in something ridiculous or too revealing. The last thing I wanted was for the entirety of the Capitol or District Ten, thinking I'm some floozy because they dressed me in a bra and denim shorts like last year's tributes.

The stylists did a good job. The costume is reflective of the district but not too revealing, at least mine isn't. It's a matching shorts, top and cowboy hat, all in cow print. They gave me a denim vest too, and black rancher boots. It's a fun outfit, one that clearly reflects the rancher lifestyle of District Ten. And even though I've never spent a day of my life out on a ranch, I still think it's cute. Plus, I get to show off my long, tan legs. I know that shouldn't be at the top of my priority list, but without a mentor to help me out, I have to use whatever I can get.

"I can't believe this," Gael scowls beside me. "I look ridiculous."

I turn to him, and have to force myself to hide my smile. He wears pants and a hat in a matching cowboy print, with the denim vest, but that's all. Gael's tanned, bare, muscular chest is exposed to the world, and he's clearly not very happy about it.

Not that I can blame him exactly. He is drawing quite a bit of attention to himself. I mean of course he does look good. I can barely keep myself from staring at him, so the audience won't be able to look away either. But that means other tributes are looking too. I've already seen most of the Careers give him dirty looks. They clearly don't want anyone stealing their thunder.

"Everyone's looking at me," Gael adds bitterly.

"Ignore them," I tell him as the Chariots start to move. "If they're looking, the audience will be too."

"And I want them to see me like this?" Gael asks me. "Half-naked? It makes me look stupid and shallow."

I can barely hear him now. The District One's chariot has pulled out onto the city circle and the audience is screaming.

I shake my head at Gael. "It makes you look attractive. And that's what those people out there want. If you can't be lethal, you have to be something else. What's wrong with having them think you're attractive?"

Gael looks confused, but he doesn't have time to react. Our chariot pulls out of the stable and we're propelled into the middle of the city circle. I'm stunned by the amount of people looking at us, staring at us. They scream our names and throw flowers. I can hear my name and Gael's richoetting across the stands and I beam back at them, waving. I turn and see Gael doing the same. When he sees me looking, he smiles and the both of us wave at the crowd. When the chariot stops, Gael wraps a reassuring arm around my shoulder and we smile at the crowd.

Gael and I are a team. Its good they know that now.

 **Bale Tempin, 13, District Eleven:**

All of these people are staring at me. Just staring. The reaping was the only other time in my life that a large group of people were staring at me. And even that, was a fraction, compared to how many people are in the crowd here. It's loud too. The crowd is shouting the names of their favorite tributes as they roll by. Though no one shouts my name or Melody's.

I know what they're thinking. I'm still too bloodied and bruised to be of interest to any of them. If I were older, that would look tough. But I'm not. So the people of the Capitol are just counting the moments until my death.

They throw flowers and trinkets at their favorite tributes, but noting comes anywhere near Melody or I. I look at Melody to see if she's noticed, but her face is an unreadable mask.

"Are you noticing the lack of excitement for us, or is just me?" I ask Melody as the chariot stops.

"I noticed," Melody says softly. "But we're from Eleven. What do you expect?"

I guess she's right. People in the Capitol don't expect anything from District Eleven tibutes. TO them, we're nothing.

Cinder Mooreton, 16, District Twelve:

People scream for Shiloh and I. Our names are echoed across the entire city circle. I've never heard this many people shout for me, and I hate to admit that it makes me feel good. I've never had this kind of admiration before. All of the people shouting my name are rooting for me. They want me to win.

I wonder if Hexar is watching this at home. I make sure to blow a kiss at the camera's just in case. I hope he is. I don't think I've ever looked this good before. I want to make sure all of the people at home see this. My stylist dressed me in a short, black leather dress and dusted coal dust all over my arms and legs. She also lined my eyes with heavy, black coal liner. It makes me look terrifying, and attractive. Both things I'll need if I want to inspire fear in the other tributes and the Capitol audience.

Shiloh doesn't seem to feel the same way. Of course, he ignores me most of the time, so I never know what's going on in his head. He smiles at the audience, but even that is meek and timid. I wonder if it's because his costume doesn't look right. The stylists covered him in black coal powder too, but his skin tone is dark, and it's not very noticeable. I wonder if he's noticed that the audience is shouting my name, and not his. I let out a triumphant laugh as I beam at the audiences. They scream my name back even louder than before.

 _"Cinder! Cinder! Cinder!"_

I give Shiloh a cocky grin as our chariot slows. Our mentor may prefer him, but the Capitol? They prefer me. And that means, I'm going to come out ahead.

 **Marcus Sparks, 14, District Three**

When people have asked me about which tributes I think have an early shot at the Games, I always tell them to look at the tribute parades. Most people think it's the training scores, or the interviews that let you know who's a real contender, but it's not. It's the parades. That's the first time you see the tributes in the Capitol, in their element. They've already had at least twenty-four hours to get over the fact that they've been reaped, but not enough time to be coached by their mentors and stylists. Interviews aren't a way to get to know the tributes, the mentors practically spoon-feed their tributes their answers. But the Parades? Those reactions are one hundred percent the tributes.

Take the tributes from District One for example. Both Brandi and Maia were naturals. They pandered straight to the capitol, waving and smiling enough to make it look like they wanted to be liked, but they didn't need it. They both know how good their chances are, even without all of the Capitol audience sucking up.

District Two's tributes only waved. They were more solemn, reserved. Maybe it's because they aren't as pretty. Or because they know they're probably stronger than District One.

District Four? They're cracked, already. Anyone with a pair of eyes can see that. The girl is wearing more make up than anyone, and the boy is sneering. They're trying to get attention, anyway they can. They both wave and gush at the audience, but stand as far away from each other as possible on the chariot. They must really hate each other. And that will fracture their chances of winning. My guess is one will probably kill the other. District Five's tributes wave but are completely silent. I admire the girl's confidence. It takes balls to go out in front of the Capitol audience looking like that, and still smile and wave. Of course, the audience gasped at first, but now? They cheer for her. Pity goes a long way. District Six and Seven just wave and smile. Neither their faces or costumes are particularly noticeable, and they get the average amount of cheers. District Eight's tributes look like they're having a hard time smiling. Both of them look ridiculous as they give their fake smiles and tiny waves. Don't they know to win, the audience has to love you, or love to hate you? That won't happen if you don't smile at them. District Nine has the cry baby and the freckled girl; Grant and Grain. That whole similar name thing might have worked for them if they seemed united, but they don't. They ignore each other and focus solely on the audience. District Ten's tributes are the opposite, smiling and holding each other. They obviously came here as a team and want us all to know it. District Eleven's tributes are solemn. They know they have no chance. District twelve has a charismatic female tribute and a boring male one.

I made all of these observations the moment their chariots rolled out, and still had time to smile at the audience. There's no way for them to know how smart I am yet. I have to save that for the interviews. So for now, I smile and wave.

 **Lykon Sestius, 18, District Two:**

The tribute parade is probably the dumbest tradition of the Hunger Games, and I hate every minute of it. It's like torture. I think I'd rather take a knife to the shoulder, than suffer through it. The interviews are stupid too but at least you get to say something. The audience at least gets a feel for who you are, but the parades? It's nothing but smiling and waving, like we're show ponies. There's absolutely no point to it. And I have to suffer through it, dressed in a gold skintight outfit and a freaking cape.

I would have thrown a bigger fit if I hadn't seen what Aurelia was wearing. Out of the two of us, I got off easy. She came off the elevator dresses in wide-leg, gold pants and a cropped top, dripping with tassels. It's clear her stylist tried to make her look more alluring because her tiny breasts are pushed up and her entire stomach is exposed. Even her hair seems to be sprayed with glitter. From the grimace on her face, you can tell it wasn't her idea. I had to stifle a laugh when I saw her. Aurelia is scrappy and they've tried to dress her up like a doll.

She held her hand up and rolled her eyes. "Don't say a word."

"Wasn't planning on it," I told her.

We suffered through the tribute parade, faking smiles and waves to the audience while they screamed for us. Neither Aurelia or I are good at faking excitement, and we try not to roll our eyes during the president's speech.

"Do you think I could toss this sugar cube at the girl from One's head without her noticing?" I ask.

Aurelia nods. "It's definitely big enough."

I end up tossing the sugar cube and hitting the blonde square in the back of the head. She doesn't even turn around. Her eyes are glues to her own reflection on the screen. After that, I zone out until it's over.

When the chariots roll back into the remake center, Aurelia lets out a low sigh.

"Thank god that is over," Aurelia says when she climbs out of the chariot. "I couldn't take another minute of it."

"Me either," I say shaking my head. "We look like idiots."

All around us, the other tributes are clamoring out of their chariots. Most cling to their mentors and watch the rest with wide eyes. But the other Careers look towards us, and I know it's time for the unwritten rules to start. It's time to introduce ourselves to the other members of the Career Pack.

I nudge Aurelia in the shoulder. "Come on. Let's go."

Aurelia raises an eyebrow, but follows me anyway. I decide to head for the evil looking blonde twins. The tributes from Four already look like there at each other's throats, so something tells me they'll follow. Aurelia looks downright miserable as she trots behind me, but I know she won't miss meeting her competition.

Blonde one and two glare at me as I approach and it almost makes me smile. They must be more insecure than I that. I guess beauty and money don't give you everything in life. The tributes from four have seen us now and they're making their way over. All of the Careers are going to be together for the first time. Across the room, the other tributes can only stare.

"Well aren't you brave," Brandi says, while his sister stares at Aurelia. "Being the first one to ally us all."

The pair from Four are here now too, and suddenly everyone's waiting for me to talk. Maia, raises an eyebrow at me and I realize how hot she is. I mean, she's obviously crazy because she volunteered with her brother, but she's still hot and that makes me a little nervous.

"I figured it was time we got together," I tell them. "We're allies after all."

Maia snorts a little and Brandi gives her a scathing stare that shuts her up. It's obvious he's the head twin. He's the one whose running things in this show.

"Lykon's right," Sedna says. "It's time we got familiar with one another. We can't expect to have a strong alliance if we don't know each other."

She adds a smile, like she's trying to win everyone over. In this group, I think intimidation would work better, but she's trying.

Finn rolls his eyes at her and says nothing. Brandi and Maia make long eye contact with each other. Aurelia crosses her arms.

Maia scans the room and grins. "Looks like the rest of the tributes are already terrified of us."

The other Careers eyes dart back towards the other tributes. At least half of them shudder and the others look away from us.

"Wouldn't you be?" Finn chuckles. "At least half of them, are bloodbath for sure."

Brandi smiles. "Looking forward to it, huh? Me too."

"What's your weapon?" Finn asks him.

Brandi smiles. "I like anything with a serrated edge. Causes the most pain. You?"

"Anything and everything. I'm good with every weapon," Finn answers arrogantly.

I snort at him. That was such a bullshit answer. Makes sense considering he's younger than the rest of us. "We're all good with weapons," I remind him. "We're Careers, remember?"

Finn says nothing. I don't know if he's angry or embarrassed, but he doesn't say anything.

"So do any of you have any idea what the arena will be like?" Sedna asks, changing the subject.

The others start a loud conversation about arenas of the past Games and which ones they liked. The general consensus seems to be that this year will be desert. We haven't had one in forever. And last year was tropics. Eventually that conversation gets boring and we move onto the parade and costumes. The girls are all alright. Maia goes on and on about her token and Sedna hangs on her every word. Aurelia does her best not to look too bored.

Brandi's kind of an airhead and Finn's arrogant, but we get along well enough. After all, we don't have to be best friends. We just have to be decent allies. We have to intimidate the other tributes, and from the look of it, we're succeeding.

 **Tyler Minroe, 16, District Six:**

When the chariots roll back in, I feel nothing but excitement. The parade was kind of fun. I could only use my uninjured arm to wave, but I still heard some of the Capitol people shouting back my name.

My stylist also dressed me in an automotive jumpsuit. I don't work on hovercrafts back home but I'm just so glad to be wearing pants that I don't care. I saw what some of the other girls were wearing, and I'm grateful not to be in glitter.

When we get back into the remake center, everyone gets off their chariots and clings to their mentors. Across the room, the Careers find their way to one another and start their usual alliance. Of course, there the first ones to make friends here. It's easy for them. They know they're an alliance. The rest of us, have to work harder.

"Want to go talk to some tributes?" I ask Lincoln. He's staring off into the distance at the curly haired career girl from Four.

He shakes his head. "No thanks. I'm gonna stay here."

I shrug. "Whatever, dude. Waste your time if you want too."

I hop off the chariot and make my way around the room. I scan the faces of the other tributes and look for one who might be friendly. District Ten's tributes look too friendly with each other, and District Eleven's look to harsh. I stop at District Nine. The girl is twirling her hair in her fingers and the boy is staring at the Careers. I remember the boy cried at his reaping and the girl looked terrified. They might be nice enough to talk too.

"Hi, I'm Tyler," I say as I walk over to them.

The boy stares at me in disbelief, and the girl smiles. Well, at least one of them seems receptive to making friends.

"I'm Grain," she says happily. "and this is Grant."

Grant's eyes widen and he turns, heading for his mentor, leaving Grain and I alone. I guess he was scared.

"Ignore him," Grain says, shaking her head. "He's scared of everyone, even me."

"Does he talk to you?" I ask. "My district partner never talks to me."

Grain shrugs. "As much as expected, I guess. Given the situation. It's stressful."

"It's only stressful, if you make it stressful," I tell her. "I'm trying to make it fun."

"Fun?" Grain asks. 'How?"

"Just enjoy the parts of this that don't suck, like the food and the attention," I tell her. "The rest you can't change."

Grain's face falls and she lets out a little sigh. "Yeah I guess."

"That's what I'm doing, anyway," I tell her.

I turn back to look at the where the Careers are standing. They look happy and amused. Out of all of us, they're having the most fun here, probably because they know they're going to be the last ones standing. Knowing your powerful must cause you to have all sorts of fun. Suddenly, I realize, If I want to truly enjoy the time I have left, I need to be with them.

I need to be with the Careers.

 **Morgan Mak, 17, District Seven:**

My costume is beautiful, and perfect for someone from District Seven. I'm almost sad the evening is over, because that means soon I'll have to take it off. I wear a thin, long sleeved, flesh-covered jumpsuit that's covered in a repeating pattern of dark brown branches. My chets is covered with a corset, made exclusively out of bark. It matches my headdress, a crown made of thin branches. I feel like a tree. Which is good. It reminds me of home. And my family.

Elm is quiet when the tribute parade ends, and I know he's scared. He's the youngest tribute here, and everyone looks at him like he's easy pickings. I swore to him that I would be his ally and protect him the best I could. He reminds me of my brothers, and if either of them were reaped, I would want someone to protect them too. And Elm is someone's little brother after all. Making him my ally was the easiest decision I've made since I got here.

When the chariots stop at the bottom of the Remake Center, everyone gets out nervously. Most people stay with their mentors or stylists, but a few wander out to socialize. The girl from six is talking to the girl from nine, and the Careers have already formed their pack in the middle.

Everyone else is staying put, either too afraid or too nervous to talk to anyone other than their district partners.

"Should we go talk to someone, Morgan?" Elm asks. He stares up at me with wide, nervous eyes. I know he won't act until he's checked with me. Elm is terrified of everyone here. He won't talk to the other tributes unless he's sure I will.

And honestly? I don't see how it will help us any now. I already care about Elm, and that's more than enough people to protect in the arena. I know myself, and if I get to know anyone else, it will only make it harder to watch them die. I don't want to do that to myself or to Elm.

"No," I tell him, shaking my head. "Let's just go find our mentor, okay?"

Elm lets out a deep breath of relief as we walk away from the other tributes, and I know I've made the right decision. This will be hard enough without liking the people who have to die, for one of us to win.

 **Niko Dyne, 18, District Five:**

Eavesdropping. It's what I do best. So, when the Career alliance clumped together for their first meeting of the Games, I had no choice but to hover close enough to overhear. It's easy enough. No one cares enough about me to notice me lingering near them. I stand behind one of the horses and stroke its hair. I'm just close enough that if I strain, I can overhear what their saying.

Lykon, the big blonde from two, is the one who walked over, but it's Brandi, from One, who speaks first. The conversation starts simply, but soon it divulges into interesting talk of the Games. I listen carefully as they talk about their favorite weapons, delighted at how useful this information could be later. So, the boy from One likes serrated knives, huh? I'll be sure to stay away from him. Then the girl from Four, Sedna, brings up arenas and I listen as they speculate about the type of arena we will be thrown into. They have interesting theories and I try to make a mental note of the possible ones.

Eventually, the conversation grows tiresome and I get bored of listening to Sedna pester Maia with questions about her opal necklace. I'm about to duck away when someone pops up behind me.

"Hear anything good?" a quiet voice whispers.

It's Lydia. She's standing beside me. I'm decently short for my age, so she's almost the same height as me. She's looking right past me, her eyes narrowed in on the Career Pack. I try really hard not to focus on her scarred face, when I answer her. I'm sure she's tired of people looking at it by now.

I shake my head. "Nope. Not a thing."

Lydia frowns. "That's too bad. I'm sure they're talking about some interesting things. It would be good to know a little bit about them."

"Yeah," I say meekly. "It's too bad."

I don't know why I lied to her. It's not as if I think Lydia of all people can't be trusted. It's just smarter to not trust anyone in these Games. Eavesdropping is the only advantage I have, and if I share what I know, then I won't have anything. Then, I would definitely die.


	21. The Training

**Training:**

 **Shiloh Bellows, 14, District Twelve:**

The tribute center is the nicest building I have ever lived in. I swear just our floor is bigger than the entire Justice Building back home. My house back in Twelve was always crowded with too many people. We never had less than four people to a room. But here? Cinder and I both have master suites that could fit half of the district. Even if it's only for a short period of time, it will be nice to live here. Cinder and I had dinner with our mentors last night and then they assured us off to our rooms. I was glad it wasn't a late night, because training starts today. Cinder and I sit at the breakfast table with Haymitch, who is inebriated, as usual. Cinder rolls her eyes at him when she sees how drunk he is, and serves herself a plate laden with the delicious breakfast foods. I can't really blame her for being irritated with him. He does ignore her. I don't think he's said more than five words to her since we've been here. He focuses all of his attention me instead, something I don't understand. Cinder's older, more attractive. Those are qualities that make a District Twelve tribute more appealing. If he had any sense, he would start supporting her

But he doesn't. He ignores her all of breakfast, and only talks to me when he tells us how the training will go. Cinder's annoyed and gets up halfway through. She comes back twenty minutes later in fresh clothes, with her thick hair twisted into a bun.

"Well don't you look pretty?" Haymitch tells her. She rolls her eyes and ignores him. Haymitch chuckles and turns back to me.

"If you do find you're decent with any of the weapons, kid. Don't show off. Not until you're private training sessions, got it?" he asks.

I nod in agreement, even though I highly doubt that I will be good with any of the the weapons.

Haymitch waves off towards the elevator and Cinder and I get in it together. Cinder doesn't say much to me, she just looks at her nails. They're still black and shiny from last night, and she seems like the kind of girl who would like that sort of thing.

When we get to the training center, all of the other tributes are all already there. Gathered in clumps of one or two. Except for the Careers of course, they're all grouped together laughing loudly and talking. It didn't take very long for them to get chummy. Wasn't last night the first night they met? I guess that's what happened when the group of them are as tough as they are this year. Wonderful. Tough Career Packs usually mean a Career victor. I was at least hoping if the rest of us had to die, that someone from an outer district would win. You know someone who actually deserves too. Not someone's whose already well fed, rich and trained.

Cinder flits off the moment we get out of the elevator, to go stand by herself. Everyone's eyes are on us as I quietly stand off to the side. There's a dark-skinned Capitol woman standing on the raised stage in front of us. She introduces herself as Meila, and gives us the rules of training. They're simple and easy to follow; we can do whatever we want during the next few days. Try any weapon, learn any skill, as long as we don't harm another tribute. I see a disturbing glint on the smile of the boy from One when she says this. After a few minutes of other introductions, she releases us and the other tributes scatter. I make my way straight to the edible plants station to test my knowledge. This way, I can do what I'm good at and stay out of everyone else's way.

 **Crickett DeGraw, 17, District Ten:**

I'm glad that Gael and I get along. Otherwise training would suck, and be extremely lonely. Most of the tributes hang out by themselves, doing their best to try and learn a new skill or weapon, while simultaneously not drawing too much attention to themselves. Only a couple of people actually stay with their district partners. The little twelve-year-old from Seven practically clings to the blonde, older girl with him. The quiet pair from Eight don't interact with anyone else, and the pair of from Five do everything together too. The rest of the tributes do everything entirely alone, except for the Career Pack. All six of them move from section to section dominating and intimidating everyone in their path. Gael and I move carefully to avoid them. But that's not too hard. They spent most of their time in the boxing ring or at the weapons rack, and I swear every so often they keep throwing glances at Gael and I. I do my best to ignore them, and make sure we go nowhere near the Careers. Gael seems to notice it too, because he keeps looking at the blonde-haired boy from Two. The big one with the blue eyes and the muscles. I don't blame him. I think he's probably the scariest looking one too.

Gael and I spend most of the morning doing everything but the weapons, in order to avoid them. We learn about edible plants, starting fires, and tying knots. Gael is good with the knots and makes perfect lassos every time.

"You're good at that," I tell him, as he makes his sixth perfect one in a row.

Gael chuckles and places the lasso down on the table. "I should be. I did it all day every day for the last ten years."

"Right," I nod. "You worked on the ranch. I forgot."

"Every day," Gael adds. "On one of your dad's ranches actually."

I snort. "You would have thought my dad might have taken me out there one of those days. You don't learn many survival skills sitting in the mayor's mansion all day."

"You ate well and kept your skin pretty though," Gael jokes.

My chest tightens at his words and I have to dig my nails into my palms to keep from letting the blush creep onto my cheeks. Gael thinks my skin is pretty? Good. That's the first step to getting him to like me. But I have to play it cool. Remain unaffected.

"I'll be sure to remember that when I'm starving in the arena," I say. I think that hides the excitement I feel running through my veins.

Gael shakes his head. "That's the point of having an ally, isn't it? We'll keep each other feed. As long as one of us doesn't get murdered in the first five minutes."

"I'm not a hundred percent convinced that won't happen."

"To me or you?" Gael asks.

I shrug, "Does it matter?"

Gael laughs, "To the one who lives, I'm sure it does."

I have to hide how wide my smile gets now. He's funny. Funnier than I even knew before. Three days of being reaped together and I already know him better than the last twelve years at school. Gael and I get along so well it almost doesn't feel real. I couldn't have asked for a nicer, or more attractive, district partner.

"Any chance you want to move on to weapons?" Gael asks. "I think we should probably try a couple, see what we're good at?"

I look back and see the Careers are still hovering near the exit of the weapons rack. One of them, the prissy blonde chick from One see's me looking and gives me a strange, confrontational look, so I turn back to Gael almost immediately.

"The Careers are still over there," I say, fidgeting a little. "They've been watching us all day. I don't really want to go over there and start something."

"You noticed that too?" Gael asks. "I feel like they've been clocking us since we got here."

I nod. "Why do you think that is?"

Gael looks over my shoulder at them and frowns. "I mean, we're the only other District team that's older. Maybe they're looking for more allies?"

I feel a tiny spurt of fear at the idea of joining ranks with the Careers. Not that they want me. I'm sure it's Gael they're looking at. I know enough to know I'm only good for my face. And the Career girls are already pretty enough. They want Gael.

"Do you want to ally with them?" I ask him. Gael is shaking his head before I even finish asking the question.

"No way. Those alliances don't last. And when they do, they end bloody."

I raise an eyebrow, "So if they asked you to join them?"

"I'd say no," Gael says quickly. "I'm not going to leave you high and dry. And you can't trust those Careers anyway. What kind of people volunteer for this?"

"Beats me," I say shrugging. "They might not take too kindly to you turning them down, though."

Gael shrugs. "What? They'll try to kill me. They're already going to do that once the gong rings, so I might as well keep my pride. And anyway, I don't think they're going to ask."

"Let's hope not," I tell him, as Gael leads us over to the weapons. When we get there, the Careers eye us with a mild interest, and then turn away.

Good. I hope they forget we're here. The last thing Gael or I need is to start trouble with the Careers. Enough people will be trying to kill us without targeting ourselves.

 **Elm Halloway, 12, District Seven:**

I stick to Morgan like glue during training. Everything she does, everywhere she goes, I follow her. I apologize over and over, but she swears she doesn't mind.

Morgan's good like that. She never once makes me feel small or weak, or like I'm bothering her. She honestly seems glad to have me as an ally. Which I know is just because she's nice. Morgan may be quiet and timid, but she's still a Seventeen-year-old from District Seven. If she wanted a better ally, she could have one. I'm lucky she's as nice as kind as she is. I'm the youngest tribute here, and while some of the other tributes might not want to be the one to throw the first punch, I know they also won't volunteer to help me out in the arena. I'm a burden to everyone here. Even Morgan.

We spend the morning doing odd things, avoiding the Career crowded weapons rack. We learn everything we can and try out all of the stations Morgan and I learn how to make fish hooks and nets. Neither of us are very good at it.

"We'll do our best to avoid fishing," Morgan jokes. "Want to try our hand at making fires?"

I shake my head. "I already know how to make fires. I can show you. We should try the rope, climbing wall."

Morgan gives me a tiny smile. "We're from Seven. You and I have been climbing tree's since we were born. We don't have to train on that."

I frown. "But don't you want everyone to see we're actually good at something?"

Morgan's eyes widen and she gives me a tiny shake. She bends down so she's facing me at my height.

"Look Elm," she whispers. "We should focus on learning new skills okay? Trying to get better at things we don't know. Not things we do."

That makes sense. I hadn't thought of it like that. I only wanted everyone to know that I wasn't as useless as they think. It only serves to remind me that without Morgan, I would die.

"Okay," I tell her. "Want to try and learn a new weapon?"

Morgan smiles. "Sure, let's go try throwing spears."

We move onto the weapons rack, and try our hands at throwing spears. Neither of us are very good, so we try a few different weapons and don't have any more success. Morgan almost sighs when we pass by a heavy silver ax, but she doesn't pick up.

The only thing I'm even a little good with is the slingshot and the tiny metal balls, but I know it's not a great thing to be good at, because it's not a range weapon. I'd have to be really close to someone to be able to hurt them. I don't worry about it though. I'm not stupid, even if I am young. I know I can't win this thing. I only have to try and die painlessly. And as long as I'm with Morgan, I should be okay.

 **Tyler Minroe, 15, District Six:**

I wait until Lunch. That's the perfect opportunity to talk to the Careers. I spent most of the morning watching them, studying them. I planned on hanging out with my district partner, but Lincoln didn't want to train with me. He headed straight for the weights, lifting as much as he could and when he finished that, he went for the weapons. He wasn't bad with the swords either. I spent the first half of the morning at the camouflaged statement. It was kind of hard to use the paints and mixtures with only one hand, but it was fun to get messy. I used my left hand to paint dirt-packed pattern on my left. It turned out decently well and I feel better when I'm covered in fake dirt. It makes me feel like I'm at home with my brother and our friends. I always got along better with boys, then girls. That's why I find it so strange that Lincoln ignores me.

Whatever. I have a new plan anyway. One that includes the kind of rough and tumble friends I want, the Careers. I watch them all morning.

The Careers dominate the weapons rack and spend the first couple of hours showing off how good they are with the weapons. The boy from One routinely swings a long, serrated knife at the other Careers, and they make a game of dodging it. They all seem to like it, using it as training. Except his sister, she looks annoyed the entire time, but I expect that. She's the kind of girl who wants to be the center of attention. She reminds me of Chrysler. She focuses on throwing. Stars or Knives, it doesn't matter. She doesn't miss a thing. The practice dummy in front of her is covered with weapons that she's thrown. She's focused and determined, and I know I never want to be anywhere near her when she throws them. The boy from Two, Lykon is scarily good with a sword, and so is his district partner, Aurelia. He uses a broadsword and she uses a short one. They go back and forth blocking each other with the swords. Eventually they get bored of sparring with each other and Aurelia goes to the dummy, shoving her sword in and out of it until she's out of breath. Lykon moves on to the weighted balls, throwing them over his shoulder.

The girl from four, Sedna joins Maia in throwing knives. They seem to get along well enough. Finn spars back and forth with Brandi. He uses a trident. A big heavy one.

That's when I notice the pattern. The boys and girls from One and Four are more social, more trusting. The tributes from Two stick together or by themselves. There too wary to trust me. But the others? They're just arrogant enough to think I'm funny. I've got a fifty-fifty chance of them letting me stick around. So when Lunch rolls around, I go for it.

Most people eat alone, or with their district partners. I notice that the tributes from Five and Seven eat together. Lincoln sits alone.

The Careers sit together at a nosy table in the middle of the room. I take my tray carefully and stand in front of them. They quiet immediately when they see me standing there. Maia raises one of her perfect, silvery eyebrows and Sedna gives me a strange glare.

The boys eye me with an odd, almost amused smile. I take a deep breath and offer a wide smile.

"Hey dudes!" I say happily. "Can I sit?"

Sedna's eyes widen in disbelief and Maia grins. Aurelia sights. Maia looks to her brother and he nods his head, running his hands through his long hair while he puts it up in bun. He looks entertained. Lykon says nothing. He just stabs his plastic fork into a piece of beef in front of him.

"You want to sit with us?" Finn asks arrogantly. "That's funny."

I grin at him. "I am funny. Very funny. I thought I'd offer you dudes the pleasure of humor."

Brandi chokes on his water and Maia purses her lips. Finn narrows his eyes and Sedna actually laughs. Aurelia and Lykon do nothing, they just keep eating.

"You're a confident little thing, aren't you?" Sedna asks, twirling one of her long dark curls between her fingers.

"Cocky," Finn snaps. "Too cocky for a tribute with one good arm."

Maia snorts. "Right like you should be talking too anyone about cockiness, Finn."

I don't let it show that what he said phases me. Instead, I keep smiling. I have to be fun, upbeat and entertaining if I want these Careers to keep me around. I have to be like a pet. It's the best chance I have.

"What I lack in dexterity, I make up for with a sparkling personality."

"Is that so?" Sedna asks with a laugh. She's definitely entertained.

"Quite the stunt, I'll admit," Brandi says with a cruel smile. Something about that smile worries me a little, but I do my best not to let it show.

Maia leans forward and smacks her brother on the arm. She gives him the dirtiest look I've ever seen and then she flashes me a wide smile, her clear blue eyes sparkling.

"Could you give us a minute, Six?" Maia asks sweetly. It's fake sweetness, the same kind Chrysler used at home. God, I hope Chrysler doesn't someday turn out like this.

"My name is Tyler," I tell clarified.

Brandi smiles. "Tyler? Isn't that a boy's name?"

"It's urban," Sedna tells him quickly. "Poor families in the districts do it."

"That's stupid," Finn says loudly. Lykon and Aurelia make eye contact and roll their eyes.

"Enough" Maia says holding a hand up to Brandi and Finn. They stop talking and she turns back to me.

"Are you not from Six?" she asks. She waits for me to answer.

I blink at her. "Yes."

Maia smiles and looks to her brother. Brandi chuckles. "Don' expect her to call you anything other than Six."

"Now, give us a minute," Maia says and ushers me back.

I make sure to keep smiling and take a few steps back, so the Careers can talk in private. The second I'm out of earshot, they bend their heads together and talk. I watch their faces to see if I can get any sense of the answer. Sedna and Brandi both smile. Aurelia says something quickly and then leans back. Lykon stays in the conversation for a little bit longer before he bows out. Finn looks annoyed. Maia looks enraged.

She and her brother talk back and forth, but then Brandi waves her off, and the conversation seems over. Maia lifts up her eyes to meet mine and they're murderous.

Brandi looks to me and smiles, waving me back over. A wave of excitement washes over me. They're letting me sit? My plan is going to work. If I get to hang out with the Careers, the most successful and strong tributes here, I'll definitely have some fun.

I place my tray down on the table and sit down beside Brandi. His sister is throwing daggers at me with her eyes but I ignore her.

All around the cafeteria, the other tributes are staring at me in disbelief. Either in shock or jealous that I'm joining the Careers. Lincoln looks amazed. I can't say that doesn't feel good.

"So, what were you dudes talking about before I got here?" I ask them. "Or were you just bored?"

Brandi looks downright thrilled and starts to chuckle. "You're entertaining, Six."

"We were talking about which tributes are the weakest, so far," Sedna tells me eagerly.

Maia narrows her eyes. "Besides you, of course."

"Enough, Maia," Brandi says. "If Six wants to join us, let her."

The other Careers all make direct eye contact with each other and then smile. I can sense something is going on between them, but I don't question it. I want to have fun with the rest of my life, and I know being with the Careers will give me that. Who cares why they're doing it? If I stick with them, I might live a little longer. And if they kill me? They kill me. But I'm going to prolong that for as long as possible. All I have to do, is entertain them.

 **Finn Landers, 16, District Four:**

I don't know what Brandi is thinking.

When that scrawny, crippled, dude-looking chick from Six came over and asked to sit with us, I wanted to punch her in the mouth. I know Maia did too. One of the unwritten rules of the Games is that the weaker tributes do not address the Careers. There supposed to be afraid of us. And avoid us. I like that power. I've earned it. I'm the youngest Career in years. I'm going to win this thing. Weak tributes should not be talking to me.

So then, when we talk about it. I assume we're going to teach her a lesson. To make sure that her and every other weak tribute in the room know not to mess with us. But what does Brandi do? He tells us to let her to stay. He thinks it will be fun. Like a plaything.

Something to keep us entertained while we get ready for the Games. That's Brandi's problem. He's a tough tribute but his need to be constantly entertained. That's why I'm going to beat him.

Six joins us after lunch too. She's constantly doing little bits and jokes for attention and it's driving me insane. Brandi and Sedna don't seem to mind it. and Aurelia has no opinion. She's too busy messing with the spears to notice. Six annoys Maia the most, so she and I distract ourselves with the climbing rope wall for a little while. I like hanging out with her. She's almost as good as I am at training. Almost.

We go back up and down the rope wall, over and over again until we can do it in seconds. When we get back down onto the ground were both sweaty and angry.

"Why do you think Brandi wants to keep Six around?" I ask Maia. She shrugs, wiping the sweat from her face and pulling her into a tight ponytail on the top of her head. I can't deny how hot she is. She makes the girls back home in my District look hideous in comparison. Too bad they're can only be one victor, because Maia looks like the kind of girl I want to marry when I win.

"No idea," Maia says irritated. "But I'll let him have his fun. She'll let her guard down and then we can handle it."

"Bloodbath?" I ask her.

Maia nods and turns to the dummy closet to her. She punches it so far it slams backward towards her at full force. She just barely has time to hit it again before it knocks into her.

"You'll have to flip me for her," I tell her.

Maia gives me a cocky smile. "Deal."

We both look over to where Six is with Brandi and Sedna. She can barely hold up an ax with one arm.

Maia laughs. "We might not even have to worry about. She'll probably stab herself by accident before we even get to her."

"Hope not," I tell her. "I'm looking forward to it."

And I am. I'm going to kill as many tributes as I can. But killing Six? That will just be fun.

 **Futura Bug, 14, District Three:**

I don't know how that Tyler girl convinced the Careers to let her eat with them, but she did. And she trained with them after lunch too.

It doesn't make any sense. Careers never hang out with anyone else unless they're so strong, and unbeatable that they have no choice but to make them an ally. And this Tyler girl? She's tiny and only has one good arm. That's not exactly a strong tribute. I don't get it.

Marcus probably knows why, he's smart, but I don't dare ask him. He's ignored me all of training. He just keeps walking around with his tiny notebook, writing things down and staying at each station for hours.

He doesn't touch a single weapon and focuses only on the survival and skill related stations. Maybe he's already good with weapons, or maybe he doesn't think knowing about them is worth it. But either way, he's doing something.

I don't know what to do. I just keep wandering around aimlessly, doing my best to learn something. It takes me hours at the fire-making station to even get a spark going, and even then, I'm shaky at it.

I move onto the stations slowly, and do my best to learn what I can. None of the trainers really seem to take to me, and focus on other tributes. The one's they have faith in. Every single one of them seems better at everything than me. Even the twelve-year-old from Seven lights fires faster than me. I try to make conversations with a few of them, but most of them say quiet.

Training is making me realize more than ever that I have no skills. No one here has any more faith in me than the teachers back in the district. I'm useless and I'm going to die.

 **Lydia Light, 16, District Five:**

I can't help it, I decide to have a little fun with the trainers at the fire-starting station. I already am pretty good with them, and when I pick up on it quickly, the trainer is delighted.

"I'm good with fire," I tell him, tapping my burned face.

The look on the trainer's face was priceless, and I chuckled as I moved onto the weapons rack. The boy from Nine was there when I got there, playing with a tiny slingshot. I moved past him quietly, trying not to draw too much attention to myself. I try with some of the weapons and find most of them are too heavy for me to use. I try the bow and arrow and fail miserably too, so I decide to focus the rest of my attention on making fish hooks. The trainer tells me I'm decent at it, so I spend another two hours there so I can master every single one. Then I move onto the nets. I figure I might as well learn everything I can about fishing, since I'm good at the hooks. I want to be able to feed myself, and there's usually fish in every arena.

I can live a long time if I'm fed, so I silently pray for a lake full of fish.

 **Velvet Wilkinson, 15, District Eight:**

Junez doesn't like other people. That much I've gathered from spending time with him. He avoids most people even Cecelia. Which I think is stupid, but he doesn't listen no matter how much I question it. He doesn't ever really listen to me. I'm not even sure why he hangs around me. Probably just because I'm from home. I seem to be the only person he will willingly talk to.

So, I wasn't surprised when training first started and he told me he didn't want to train with anyone else. We've pretty much stuck together since this whole thing started anyway, and he's not bad company.

Our stylists put us in nice athletic wear, the thick stretchy kind that offers perfect mobility. I've never worn anything made of this material before. It's soft like cotton but stretchier and more durable. I make a mental note to ask my stylist, Tilly what it's called, later. I saw her this morning, when the prep team spent almost an hour neatly arraigning my hair into a low ponytail that keeps my hair out of my face. Drusilla and Alba had me so paranoid about having such vibrant hair, I'm glad it's up. I don't want to make myself particularly noticeable. Not around this batch of terrifying tributes.

The training room is intimidating with all of them standing there. I was too distracted during the tribute parade to notice most of them, but now that were all gathered together and training? I see how disadvantaged Junez and I are. In a group of lethal hunters, we're like sitting ducks.

I pay close attention to the training woman's instructions and scan the room when she dismisses us. There's stations, weapons racks, and trainers, all standing around for our use. But it's the other tributes that are the most intimidating. The strong ones show off their skills with the weapons and weights, and the weak ones try to go unnoticed. I don't know where I fit into that equation. Junez and I are so skinny that even the younger tributes are bigger and stronger than us. If we want to get a decent training score, we'll have to develop some new skills, and soon.

The training room has a series of steps and Junez and I decide to go jogging on them first. Running up and down on them is relaxing and it it's the only thing I know for sure I'm good at.

I spend at least two hours there, jogging up and down until I can barely catch my breath. Some of the other tributes watch me with uncertainty and some of the Careers snigger. It's obvious they think I'm wasting my time jogging, but it feels good to stretch my legs. It's familiar and it gets my blood pumping. I used to run all the time at home.

But I still can't ignore the sniggering. The Career's alternate their sneering between Junez and I, and the pair from Ten.

"Ignore them," Junez says panting. "Running is useful."

I nod, "Yeah, chances are we're going to be doing a lot of it, in the next couple of days."

"Running is better than trying to fight off some of these tributes," Junez agrees. "Have you seen the size of them?" He's looking directly at the men in the Career Pack now.

I nod in agreement. "I know. Since when are all the tributes well-fed and strong?"

"Who knows," Junez says shaking his head. "Wish we were better fed."

I bend my legs and put my hands down on my knees so I can catch my breath. Junez sits down on one of the steps beside me.

"Maybe if you stopped skipping meals with Cecelia, you'd gain a little more weight before the Games," I tell him, "I can only sneak so much food from the table."

Junez rolls his eyes. "I get it okay? I'll join the family dinner with the mentor, but I still don't think a few extra meals are going to turn us into Careers."

"They won't," I tell him. "But at least we know how to be hungry. I guarantee those Careers can't miss a meal without feeling it."

Junez's eyes darken. "I guess that's the one good thing about being starving." He kicks his feet out and stretches his legs.

"Can I ask you something, Velvet?" he asks.

I look up at him, confused. I usually have to practically pull Junez's teeth to get him to answer any of my questions. It's strange for him to be asking me questions.

"Sure," I tell him. "What's up?"

Junez's face goes even and he puts his hands in his lap. "Are we allies?" he asks.

It's an honest question from him. And Junez doesn't share things honestly. It catches me off guard. Then I want to laugh.

"What did you think I was going to knife you the second the gong rang out?" I ask, with a chuckle. "Of course, we're allies."

Junez's rolls his eyes and he nods his head. "Okay, good."

"Good," I agree.

Junez gets up and nods towards the climbing rope wall. As we walk towards it, I'm left thinking. The Games are dangerous and terrifying. It's a good thing to be able to have someone to trust in the arena. Especially someone from home. Even if Junez doesn't like talk, that doesn't matter. I'm not exactly the most talkative person around either. As long as we trust each other, we'll be good allies, and that's all I can ask for.

I decide to move on to the edible plants station. Being from Eight, Junez and I are already disadvantaged when it comes to plant life. District Eight is nothing more than a maze of concrete buildings, so I never see any kinds of plants. And considering there will be tons of plants in the arena, it's time I study up.

I spend a long time at the station, trying to memorize all of the non-poisonous and poisonous plants I can. It takes three hours before I can get through the test with a passing score. I have to come up with tiny rhymes in my head in order to remember the harder ones.

Mushrooms with white on the bottoms are edible, and the one's with yellow on the bottom are not. The dark purple berries are edible and the black ones are not.

Junez gets bored halfway through and disappears to go the fire-starting station, but I don't leave until I'm positive I know everything I can. The trainer is kind, and he works with me. He seems glad that someone is actually willing to learn. He likes my rhyming system and helps me come up with one to identify the edible green fruit; If it's round and on the ground, you're victor-bound, if its long and thin, you'll never win.

When I'm finally convinced I'm able to tell most of the edible and non-edible plants apart, I head to some of the other stations and do my best to pick up whatever skills I can; camouflage, knot tying, and making fish hooks. Then I try lifting weights and swinging across the bars on the ceiling. I do everything I can the first day, until I'm so tuckered out I can't move, but I try and eat as much as I can at dinner. I'll need my strength.

I purposefully wait until the second day of training before I go anywhere near the weapons rack. I'm not looking forward to the idea of getting familiar with them, but I know I have too. Junez and I head straight for the weapon rack. It's laden with some of the sharpest and scariest things I've ever seen. Things I never thought I'd touch before; swords, maces, whips, hatchets, ax's, spears, tridents, bows and arrows, and at least ten different kinds of knives. Junez messes around with the bigger ones, the swords and the mace. I avoid those, knowing I never want to have wield something like that, even if I could get my hands on one.

I suck at everything, except throwing the knives. It takes a while to get the hang of it, but eventually they stop scattering on the floor and make it on the practice dummy. When I use the archery, target, I even make one on the inner ring.

But Junez is the real star of the show. He's good with the sword. Really good. He lazily swings it at the practice dummy and decapitates it in seconds. The head falls to the floor and rolls onto the floor. Even the Careers notice that, and eye him with interest.

I'm so shocked the knife I'm throwing misses the target and hits the walls behind the curly-haired boy from Four, Finn. It misses his arm by inches. Terror fills every inch of me as the boy gives me a scathing glare.

I feel my blood freeze as he looks at me, furious. The other Careers chuckle while he yanks the knife from the wall and twirls it in his fingers.

"You want to watch were you throw that knife, Red," he warns me. "Or it'll find a way back to you in the arena."

He drops the knife on the table beside me and sneers. Then he walks back to the Careers without another word. I'm still frozen with terror. I've been in the Capitol for barely three days and I've already pissed off a Career. So much for going unnoticed.

Junez looks scared for a moment and then shakes his head. "And I thought _I_ was bad at making at friends."

I sigh, hoping Finn will forget about this. I don't need an enemy before I even get to the arena.

 **Niko Dyne, 18, District Five:**

I spend training, watching and observing. There's a lot to see if you pay attention. Some people might think it's a waste of time to watch the other tributes, instead of learning about edible plants and starting fires, but I don't. These are the twenty-four people I'm going to be up against. It's time I learned a thing or two about them.

I start with the Careers. The pair from One are just as skilled as they are attractive, which isn't good. I was hoping they'd be idiots, and they're not. The pair from Two are even worse. They're strong and quiet. Whenever the louder Careers start to fight, those two always exchange glances or eye rolls. Something tells me that there the real Careers to look out for, no matter how flashy the other two are. The pair from Four hate each other, but they're both skilled fighters. The boy is pretty much skilled with every weapon imaginable, and the girl? I watched her throw skills with such stunning accuracy, it worried me. If the dummies she uses were tributes, half of us would be dead.

I watch Lydia too, though not like the rest. She's my district partner so I don't look forward to the idea of looking for her weaknesses. Instead I focus on her strengths, she's good with the fish hooks and nets.

I do overhear a conversation between Morgan and Elm, from Seven. Turns out she's pretty good with an ax, and at climbing trees. Though I could have guessed the second. The score of training, was overhearing the conversation between Maia and Finn. I really was lucky. I happened to be standing behind one of the practice dummies when I heard them talking about killing the disabled girl from Six, Tyler. I had thought it was weird they were letting her tag around, but killing her as soon as the Games start? That's cold. Part of me wants to warn her, but I also know that's a bad idea. If the Careers find out I'm telling their secrets, I'm the first one on their hit list. And that is not a good way to survive.

 **Lykon Sestius, 18, District Two:**

The private sessions. Finally, a part of the pre-Games that makes sense to me. This isn't about making people like you or looking pretty. The private sessions are about making sure the people who run this thing know exactly who they're dealing with. And I intend to show them.

Lifting weights, skills with weapons, Endurance? I'm good at all of it. I'm made for the Games, and it's time the Gamemakers see that.

On the third day of training, I wait patiently with the other tributes for the Gamemakers to call my name. Only Brandi and Maia go before me, so I don't have to wait long. The second I hear my name called, I get to my feet, ready and alert.

"Good luck," Aurelia tells me.

I fake a smile and tell her thanks, but she and I both know I don't need it. Aurelia has been watching me train this entire time. She knows how qualified I am. When I get inside the private session room, I see it's much smaller than the training room, but filled with most of the same stuff. The Gamemaker running it, a white-haired man up front, tells me I have fifteen minutes and can spend them however I like.

I start with the swords, because I know that's what they really want to see. Sure, endurance and survival skills are important in the arena, but everyone knows that what audiences really care about is how well you can kill. I stab and slice all of the practice dummies in the room for the first ten minutes, and see that Gamemakers are watching my every move. Hanging on to it, with wide, excited eyes. This is exactly what they're looking for, so I keep doing it. I use the hammer, the mace, the machete, whatever looks terrifying. Then I move onto the weighted balls, throwing each 100 lb. one over my head several times. After that, I'm out of time. The Gamemakers dismiss me with wide smiles and claps.

As I walk out, I know I've set the bar very, very high.


	22. The Private Sessions

**The Private Sessions:**

 **Waverly Tuffington, 27, Head Gamemaker, Capitol**

Ah, the private sessions.

They're probably the other Gamemakers favorite part of the Games. And I know why. As Head Gamemaker, I run most of the show when it comes to the Games, but the private sessions are where the other Gamemakers get to be active participants. They love watching them, and will even get into fights about the fairest scores. It's the most fun they have in the Pre-Games.

For me, it's harder. I can't let the tributes know I'm head Gamemaker so I have to sit in the middle and let someone else run the show. This year I chose Helios Greenbrier, one of the older more experienced Gamemakers, to run the private sessions. He's done it before under Plebius, so I know he will do a good job, but it doesn't make it any easier to hand over the reins. These Games are my baby, and I'm doing my best to try not to control every aspect, despite how much I want too. My favorite Gamemaker, Atticus, sits beside me when they begin. He knows how nervous I am, and why my nails dig into the armrest of my chair. It's a wonder I even managed to get dressed this morning, without succumbing to my nerves.

Today has to go perfect.

The first tribute to start the day off is Brandi Boyle, from One. When he gets called I watch him carefully. Every Gamemaker around me has the silver clipboards I gave them, and they start to eagerly take notes. That's good. I need their opinions. Tribute scores are averaged.

"This is one of the tributes people are most excited about," Atticus tells me. "The twin concept is so genius, it's like we created it ourselves."

"You and I both know we're not supposed to buy into public opinion," I tell him. "Judge him just like everyone else."

Atticus frowns, "Yeah, I know, but it's still a really cool idea."

He senses I'm not in the mood for talking anymore and turns forward to watch Brandi. The tribute is beautiful, but I knew that from the reapings and their tribute parade. Both of the twins are beautiful. Last night I went to one of the up and coming restaurants in the Capitol, and all the chatter was about those two. I did my best to ignore it, but it was hard. It's clear they've made their mark on the citizens of the Capitol.

When Brandi walks in, he saunters. He winks at us Gamemakers and flashes a cocky smile.

"He's a flirt," Atticus says with a snort.

I wave him off. "Let him flirt. The only thing that counts is what he shows us."

Brandi heads straight for the weapon rack, something that doesn't surprise me. I know these Career types like the back of my hand. There's only three kinds; the ones who are arrogant, the ones who are tough, and the ones who are both. Only time will tell which of these Brandi is.

He grabs a knife, and the Gamemakers around me all gasp. Most tributes work their way up to the knives, but not Brandi. He chooses a heavy, serrated one. Then without warning, he lobs it straight into one of the practice dummies, where it makes a heavy thud and lands in its head. He rips it from the dummy again and then lodges it in its heart. Over and over again, Brandi stabs, slices and beats the same practice dummy until it's nothing more than a pile of plastic and cotton. Even when it's shapeless and immobile, he continues to mutilate it.

All around the room, the other Gamemakers are watching in horror until Helios finally gets up and dismisses Brandi. Brandi drops the knife on the floor and smiles. Then he exits quickly.

Everyone looks to me, the moment he leaves. And I know why. We haven't seen a private session like this in a while. This was straight savagery.

"Should we do anything?" Helios asks me, wide eyed. He knows better than I that this is a good thing. Even if it was terrifying to watch, Brandi is exactly what audiences will want to watch. He is a ratings gold-mine.

I shake my head. "No, just send an avox down there to clear that mess up before the next tribute comes in."

Helios nods and sends the blonde avox to the floor to dispose of the mutilated practice dummy. While they do, I hear the whispers and scratches of the other Gamemakers pens as they try to figure out the appropriate score to give Brandi. The scores always get averaged out in favor of the tribute, and from the sounds of excitement and terror around the room, I can't tell what it will be yet. He was skilled, and will definitely earn a high score, but that level of savagery also means Brandi might not be the most rational Career. And every other Career that has won has been rational. Sure, Golden Hendricks killed twelve tributes and ripped a guy's heart out, but her she was rational, calculated. She always waited for the perfect moment. Her private session was calm, collected and impressive. Nothing like what we just saw.

We wait for the avox to finish before the next tribute comes in. Maia walks slowly and confidently, and actually bows when Helios introduces her.

She's quiet, beautiful and determined. Once her time begins, she shows off with a multitude of weapons; swords, knives, hatchets and axes. She's skilled, never missing her mark and never wasting time after she's hit her target. When her time is up, she bows again and leaves. She's the image of the perfect career. The pens start scraping furiously on the clipboard the moment she leaves.

Lykon Sestius comes in next. He's good-looking, but not as much as the other Career boys. Though he does make up for it in stature. He's bigger and stronger than the others, quieter too. I haven't decided if that will benefit him or not yet. He gives a perfect session; showing endurance and skills with weapons. His district partner, Aurelia Vespillo gives a similar one. She barely looks at us when she walks in, she focuses only on Helios' instructions and then reaches for the short sword. She shows excellent proficiency with it, hitting the practice dummy in every lethal spot. She's also good with the machete and dagger. She uses her final five minutes to climb the rope wall over and over. She's talented, and she knows it. She doesn't even seem to care we're in the room. She's just that good.

District Three breaks up the Careers. Marcus Sparks is first. He does nothing. Not one thing. He sits down on the floor and scribbles in a notebook, staring at all of us until he's dismissed.

"How do we score that?" Atticus asks.

"Do your best," I tell him. There's collective groans around the room.

Futura Bug is next, and I watch her carefully, unmoving. She's one of my rigged tributes. It's imperative I give her a low score. President Snow requested they all receive low scores, to really make sure they don't have an easy time in the arena. Futura makes it easy for me. She tries and fails at archery, not hitting the target once, and then she moves onto the edible plants test, where she gets 45/100 correct. Even from my comfy seat in the balcony, I can see her starting to tear up. The energy in the room is bitter with these last two tributes. No one likes the weak or young.

Then comes more Careers, and the attitude in the room immediately perks up. Everyone is anxious to see, Finn Landers, in action. And they aren't disappointed. At only sixteen, he's one of the strongest and youngest Careers we've seen in years. The female Gamemakers snigger behind me that if he wins, the women on the Capitol will be forced to weight two whole years before they can sink their teeth into him.

He focuses solely on one weapon, the trident. He wields it like an extension of his arm, like it's a part of him. It's impressive. It's clear he's been practicing with it for years. He doesn't touch a single other weapon in the training room, but he doesn't need too. He's skilled enough with the trident. Finn will be fine as long as there is a trident in the arena. I make note of this on my clipboard. So, Finn needs a trident? I have only one day to decide if I'll actually put one in there or not. I'm solely in charge of every weapon that does or does not make it into the arena. If I put one in there, there needs to be a dramatic reason for it.

Sedna Dyna comes in next, her face an unreadable mask. I didn't realize how tall she was, before. She's athletic and strong, but doesn't have the usual look of a Career. She's nods curtly at the instructions and then reaches for the trident. When she does, I almost drop my clipboard out of excitement. I've found my intrigue. The reason I have to be here for these sessions. The last-minute details that make the Games.

So, Sedna and Finn prefer to use a trident? That could be very interesting. A tiny smirk crosses my face.

"What?" Atticus asks.

I shake my head. "Don't worry about it."

Sedna uses the trident for most of her private session. She's good with it too. Just as good as Finn.

I carefully open my weapons list and write; 1- Trident. I'll put one trident in the arena. Sedna and Finn can fight for it. The better tribute gets it. That will definitely make the bloodbath more interesting. That could start a fight between Careers, and in the first five minutes. I know President Snow will love that.

Niko Dyne comes in next. At eighteen, he's the oldest tribute that's not a Career. His private session is unexciting. He's decent at camouflage, but spends his entire time doing it. Sure, the ability to transform yourself into stone is somewhat impressive but what can you really do with it besides hide or eavesdrop.

Then comes Lydia Light. And the other Gamemakers still gasp when they see her face. I sigh at their reactions. It's immature and ridiculous. Sure, beautiful tributes get better sponsors, but unfortunate looking tributes have won in the past. Sometimes it's motivating for them. We owe them at the very least the chance to show what they can do. Lydia is decent with fish nets and hooks. She splits the time in her session between them, showing us the variety she can make with both. It's impressive from a tribute who isn't from District Four. It shows she really learned something over training. Her scores will reflect that.

Lincoln Nash from District Six comes in with a wide smile on his face. His auburn hair is long and thick and his eyes are bright and blue. The kind of tribute that people relate too. He could be your brother, your son. He's polite too. He thanks Helios for his time and then gets to work. He's good with the weights and the machete. He can lift the weighted balls over his head and hold them for a minute, sometimes with one hand. Every time he does it, the Gamemakers scribble excited notes on the clipboard.

Then Tyler Minroe enters the room. She's tiny and charismatic, despite her disabled arm. I fully expect her to head straight for the nets, or camouflage, the things the weaker tributes gravitate towards, but she doesn't. She heads straight for the weapons rack, reaching for a particularly large hatchet. It looks like it's difficult for her to manage with one arm, but she lifts it anyway and manages to swing it onto the dummy several times. She's red-faced and panting, but eventually, she even manages to spilt the dummy's head open. There's a mumble of appreciation when she does.

Elm Halloway is next. The youngest tribute in the mix, and looks it. With his head of light brown curls and cherubic face, he looks like he belongs on a playground rather than the arena. That's perfect. The Capitol people are 100 times more invested in the Games when younger tributes are reaped. Elm proves himself, surprising us all when he climbs the rope wall, and the bars on the ceiling, without blinking an eye. His district partner Morgan Mak, comes in next. She's waifish, pretty and timid, not inspiring much confidence in either her reaping or the tribute parade. But now? She comes in stronger, more determined. Just like her district partner, she excels at climbing the rope wall and swinging from the ceiling bars. She also twirls around an ax like it's a rag doll. She surprised us, and that's good. As Gamemakers, we enjoy surprises.

Junez Croster is surly and unappreciative. He stomps into his private session, grumbling the entire time. When the instructions are complete, he heads goes straight for the weapons rack and slams a mace into the practice dummy three times. Then he leaves the room.

Opinions on him are split. Some admire his gumption, others find him uneasy. His score will be a surprise.

Velvet Wilkinson is quieter and politer than her district partner. She's tiny; skinny and frail, only memorable because of her flaming red hair. She listens carefully to the instructions and then heads for the knives on the table. She picks up the small, hand sized ones and weigh them in her hand. The she lobs one at the archery target and it hits the center circle. She smiles, and throws another. It hits the middle one too. She has good aim, and this seems to surprise her as much as it does us. Once she finishes throwing the knives, she runs around the room. She's fast and focused, a runner. She does that until Helios dismisses her.

Grant Blunt comes in next. He's the one who cried at his reaping and at the tribute parade. I'm told by Meila that he cried most of his training too. He sniffles when he comes into the room and wipes at his eyes when the instructions are over. The only thing he picks up is a slingshot and tiny metal balls. He misses everything he aims for, and his eyes keep darting back towards the rope tieing station. He clings to the slingshot until he's dismissed.

Grain Garner is next. She's a plain girl. Very forgettable, but she's decent with a machete. She takes down one of the practice dummies decently quickly. Then she lobs it at the archery targets. It slams against the middle circle but doesn't stick, scattering to the ground.

When Gael Yule comes into the room, every one of the other Gamemakers quiet instantly. The young man has a certain presence to him, that you can't look away from. He's tall, broad and beautiful. He looks like most of the district ten tributes; dark-haired, tanned, and with bright green eyes. He's excellent with the long thin knives, burying them in the practice dummy easily. When he finishes showing off his skills with that, he moves onto the large, leather whip that's sitting on the table. It's a heavy, bulky weapon that most of the tributes are too weak or unskilled to use. But Gael? He picks it up effortlessly, and with one stretch of his muscled arm, the leather whip wraps around the neck of the practice dummy. When he only has a few minutes left, he makes a string of perfect lassos out of rope. Every Gamemaker in the room is impressed. His practice session would have been great even if he were a career, but it's even more impressive from an outlier tribute.

Crickett DeGraw is next. She's another one of my rigged tributes. The mayor's daughter. Although that would be obvious just from looking at her. Crickett is pretty, clean and just as attractive as Gael. It makes me wonder if everyone from Ten is good-looking. But unlike Gael, she doesn't have quite the same presence. She's decent with the small knives, stabbing the practice dummies over and over. She also manages to make a couple lassos. They're not crafted as nicely as Gael's, but they're decent. On any other year, she probably would have earned a seven, overall. But not this year.

Bale Tempin is the third rigged tribute. In his private session, he sneers at us. Too angry for a child of only thirteen. All he manages to do is start a fire. He balances a hatchet in his hand but he never uses it. He only makes the fire, and lets it burn until he's dismissed.

Melody Twig is tougher and more determined than her district partner. She strides into the room confidently and heads straight for the rope climbing wall. She's good at it. She climbs it over and over until she's panting and can't do anymore. It's impressive for a district eleven tribute. They're usually too starved or scared to anything that physical or impressive.

Shiloh Bellows spends his entire practice session at the edible plants station. He does test after test, and never misses a single one. That seems to be his only skill.

His district partner Cinder Mooreton is much more charismatic. She smiles and nods during Helios' introduction and then when he finishes she _raises her hand_.

Helios' eyebrow raises and he looks at her with disbelief. "Yes? Ms. Mooreton."

"Do you have a pick-ax?" Cinder asks. "That's my weapon of choice."

Everyone in the room is silent. Tributes never speak to us, and when they do it's never to ask for a specific choice of weapon. It's unprecedented, and ballsy for Cinder.

Helios' is confused. He doesn't know what to do and he turns to me. I nudge Atticus quickly.

"Tell him that there's one in the supply closet," I whisper quickly. "Have an avox bring it out. Go."

Atticus gets up and whispers it to Helios. Helios nods and orders the avox to bring one out. Cinder's face lights up when one of the avoxes presents her with a shiny, silver pick-ax.

"Thank you," she says happily and picks it up. She moves back toward the practice dummies and buried the pick-ax in it over and over. Her face erupting in rage and frustration as she slams it into every single one of the practice dummies. I never would have expected that kind of power from someone like her. I had her pegged as a shallow, empty-headed tribute for sure.

"Why did you bring her the weapon she wanted?" Atticus asks me, as I watch her.

I stare deeply at the girl from Twelve while I answer him. "Because Atticus. Most of these tributes are scared, or angry. If one of them wants to deliver a good show, you let them."

Helios dismisses Cinder when her time is up, and immediately the entire room becomes a flurry of gossip and conversation as the other Gamemakers turn their scoresheets over to me. I collect them and try to ignore their chatter, keeping myself impartial, but it's hard not to overhear them.

 _"Did you see Brandi? It would be crazy not to give him an 11!"_

 _"Crickett? Pretty and Tough?"_

 _"Finn Landers, a victor for sure!"_

 _"What about the little boy? Elm surely deserves at least an eight!"_

As I look at the other Gamemakers scores, a sly smile crosses my face. Some of the tributes will be thrilled. And some will be very disappointed.


	23. Score Reveal

Score Reveal:

 **Brandi Boyle, 18, District One:**

Maia and I sit side by side on the couch, anxiously awaiting our scores to be revealed. Golden looks anxious too. She stares at the screen with tense, focused eyes. It's not as if we don't know Maia and I are both going to score high. The question is not if we will score high, but who will score highest.

I know I did a phenomenal job, and from the expression on Maia's face, I think she's worried. It's the way she always looks when she's nervous. Her tiny hand is covering her mouth, and her eyes are wide and glassy.

It almost makes me smile, seeing Maia look so pathetic and nervous. I want to laugh, because I know I already have it in the bag. But then I remember I'm trying to be brotherly, and ally with Maia, so I fake confidence in her.

"You'll be fine, Maia," I tell her, even though I have to force the words from my throat. "I'm sure you did great."

Maia gives me a small smile, and flips some of her hair over her shoulder. She believes me. Of course, she does. I don't know if it's because I'm her brother or because she's arrogant, but either way it benefits me. I need my sister to believe me. To trust me.

"Thanks, Brandi," she tells me. It sounds forced, but neither of us care. We're too anxious.

Golden crosses her long legs and lets out a little chuckle. "As if either one of you have anything to worry about. I bet you have the highest scores of all the tributes tonight."

Gorgeous, confident and complimentary. Golden is the perfect woman, and from the smirk on her face, she seems to know it. I can't wait until she sees my score.

The television behind her announces the beginning of the program and all of our eyes dart to the screen. They introduce the program for a few minutes and then my face appears on the screen.

"Here it is!" Golden says, squeezing my forearm excitedly. I grin. I'm glad Golden is here to see me score an eleven.

"Brandi Boyle, with a score of 9!"

Nine!? I slam my fist down on the side of couch as anger courses through me.

"Nine?" I hiss. "How is that possible?"

Golden's jaw is hung open in disbelief and Maia is doing her best to hid her subtle joy. Of course her beautiful face is turned down in faked sadness, but even from beside her I can see the corners of her mouth upturning into a smile. I can see the glint in that traitor's eyes.

"They must be judging more harshly this year," Golden assures me, moving her hand to my knee, but her eyes are glassy and unenthused. Of course, they are, she scored an eleven last year.

I shove her hand away, still furious about my score. Golden wants to keep talking but we don't have the time. Maia's face is already flashing on the screen. I turn my attention to it immediately. If I got a nine, that means Maia had to score low. Maybe an eight, or even a seven.

"Maia Boyle, with a score of 10!"

The tables shakes as I slam my hand down on it again. One of the legs quiver so hard, I think it might snap off.

No. No! This isn't possible. It's rigged. It has to be. This can not be happening.

Maia jumps to her feet, and lets out a tiny excited noise. She dances back and forth, waving her arms in excitement. I have to resist the urge to smack her. How can she be celebrating? Doesn't she know there's something wrong? There is no possible way this is right. There is no way Maia scored better than me.

I'm frozen in fury, while my sister jumps and celebrates beside me. I can't believe any of this happening. It feels like a sick joke. Or a really horrible mistake.

I mean how in all of Panem did Maia score better than me? ME! I'm angry. I'm furious. I can't believe this.

Golden's lips are pulled in a tight line, and when she turns to me, she's clearly not happy. She moves onto Maia instead, lightly tapping her on the shoulder.

"Congratulations, Maia," she says, offering a wide smile. "I'm very proud. We can work with a ten."

I scowl. Maia beams at her, clearly happy to finally be getting some attention from our mentor. Golden is looking at her with wide, thrilled eyes, and carefully fluffs a piece of Maia's hair back onto her shoulder, while the two of them gab on and on about what she did in her private session. They actual giggle, like their best friends.

It takes everything I have not to chuck the television remote at both of their heads.

Golden can't be serious. Maia scores better than me and now she thinks she's going to win? Please. I don't know what Maia did to trick the Gamemakers, but it won't work in the arena. The second we're in the Games, she'll see.

I may have scored a 9, but I'm still going to win. Maia will see. Golden will see. They're all going to see.

 **Aurelia Vespillo, 18, District Two:**

Our mentor, Brutus sits in between Lykon and I on the couch. He's a big, boulder of a man, and the entire couch shakes when he laughs.

I don't particularly like or dislike Brutus. He's a decent mentor, and knows how the Game's work, so I'm grateful for that. But as a person? I barely know him, and I don't care too. We're civil enough, and only close because he's going to keep me alive. That's all the relationship we need. He talks more with Lykon, probably because they're both guys. Brutus thinks he and Lykon are similar. But the only similarity I see between them is their size. Brutus is a loud, over-confident man who likes to make inappropriate comments about everything, while Lykon hardly says a word.

I know this doesn't matter much. Not everyone has a stellar relationship with their mentor. There here to help us after all. We don't need to be best friends. We just need to help each other.

Brutus has just finished making a crude comment about what he would do to the female tribute from One, when Lykon's score is announced.

"Lykon Sestius, with a score of 10!"

Brutus clapped loudly and cheered, too loudly, our escort was right when she told him he shouldn't have had that last glass of wine.

"See, buddy," he says clapping Lykon hard on the back. "I knew you had it in you."

Lykon raises his eyebrows in answer, but doesn't take his eyes off of the screen.

"Congratulations," I tell him, waiting for my own face to appear on the screen. Lykon only nods.

Now my face is on the screen. It's the photo from the train station, so I'm sneering. On looks alone, I'm a joke compared to Maia, but in toughness? It's a perfect photo. It inspires fear. I look just as terrifying as Brandi or Lykon.

"Aurelia Vespillo, with a score of 10!"

Yes!

A smile crosses my lips as my mentor and escort cheer happily. Beside me, Lykon stares at the screen with a mild, confused look. Is he surprised I scored high? Disappointed, maybe? I don't know and I don't care. As much as I don't mind Lykon, he's my competition. I'll slit his throat in a second's notice if I have too. I thought he was a level-minded tribute, someone who was sort of reasonable in this whole mess. But if he's underestimating me?

That'll be the end of this alliance.

 **Marcus Sparks, 14, District Three:**

I don't know why Wiress and Beetee are so surprised that Maia scored better than her brother. Anyone with eyes can see that she's the powerhouse from that District. Sure, Brandi is big and tough, but he's too confident. He misses things. Maia is much more meticulous. She doesn't miss anything. It doesn't surprise me at all that she scored better than him.

Lykon and Aurelia from Two both scored tens. That makes sense, they're equally as strong and unaffected. Those two are like stones. Big, threatening and silent. It makes me wonder what is going on underneath. If they're calculating, they can win. If they're simpleminded, their strength won't be enough to win.

That's what I'm thinking of when my face flashes on the screen. I look tiny and unassuming. There isn't a trace of my brilliance in the photo of the tiny, pallid boy on the screen, but I don't mind it much. The interview is where I will truly shine. Where all of Panem will know how smart I am.

"Marcus Sparks, with a score of three!"

Wiress and Beetee sigh, disappointed. Our escort buries their face in their hands. Futura gives me a pitiful, sympathetic glance.

"I'm sorry," she says wistfully. "I'm sure the interview will go better."

Ha. She pities me? That's funny. She must not know I what I can do. What I have planned. This is only the beginning.

"Oh, it will," I tell her. "That's where impressions are solidified."

Futura looks confused. She blinks at me, behind her thick orange glasses as she tires to process my comment.

"But isn't the training score really important?" she asks.

I snort. "That's what the people who lose, think."

Futura's mouth hangs open a little and she doesn't have time to say anything else. Her face is already flashing across the screen.

"Futura Bug, with a score of two!"

Another sad sigh from our mentors. Futura scored even lower than me. They must be disappointed. They think we're going to lose.

Futura bites her bottom lip nervously. "Well, at least the training scores matter less than the interviews, right?" she asks.

This time, I do laugh at her. Her ridiculousness.

"Right," I tell her cruelly, "If you have something to offer during the interview, which you don't."

Futura's face turns downward and she avoids my eyes. I've hurt her feelings or confidence, I can't tell which, but either way, I don't care. I'm getting sick of Futura's persistent, annoying diatribe. We are not friends. We are not even competitors. Futura is a weak, useless tribute whose destined for death, while I have the brains to stand a decent chance.

I just have to show it.

 **Sedna Dyan, 18, District Four:**

Finn and I both hate any activity where we have to sit together and play nice.

Dinners, lunches, and Capitol programming are the worst. We sit as far away from each other as we can on the couch, waiting for our scores. Our mentor, Cassidy twirls her red hair into a long braid while we wait. She isn't talking to either of us right now, for whatever the reason. I guess she's focused on the scores. She has always been very focused on the Games. She doesn't seem interested in bonding with Finn or I separately, only as a team. I guess it doesn't matter to her which one of us wins, as long as District Four has a winner.

But it matters to me. Finn isn't old enough to win. He doesn't deserve to win. I put in the time, and the work to win this thing. I don't just want to win for me. I want to win for all of District Four. And I'm going too, as soon as I can get Finn out of the way.

It was during training, when I decided I'd have to kill him. We hate each other, more than we hate anyone else. The Games haven't even started yet and we're already itching to kill one another. We're going to have real trouble suffering through the Career Alliance. How am I going to be able to sleep with Finn watching my back? I know, I can't. He'd slit my throat at the first opportunity, and I'd do the same. That only leaves one option; the moment the Career Pack begins to dissolve, I'm going to kill Finn.

Cassidy makes tiny comments to no one in particular while we watch the others scores. Maia scores better than Brandi and Finn lets out a little chuckle. He's amused. Not that that's surprising, he's been casing Maia's tail around all of training. It's ridiculous. If I didn't hate him so much, I'd think it was funny that he thought he had a chance with someone who looked like Maia. But because I hate him, it makes me happy. I hope she rips his throat out for talking to her, or better yet, kills him for me. I like Maia and Brandi both, after all they're the same age as I am. The Career Alliance will be much stronger without Finn.

Aurelia and Lykon both get tens too, and that's a little intimidating. They're the members of the Career Alliance I know the least. They only really talk to each other, like they have no interest in getting to know us better. I don't think it will serve them in the arena. The less the others trust you, the faster you'll die.

The pair from Three both score low. Not surprising, they're weak and they both seem to know it.

When Finn's face appears on the screen, everyone's attention snaps up quickly. He scores a nine, and I frown. Cassidy cheers.

Finn appears triumphant but I can see the disappointment in his eyes. Other Careers scored higher than him. That bothers him, even if he got a decent score. He's never satisfied unless he's the best.

His eyes are locked on the screen at my turn. He wants me to score low. Then at least he will know he beat me.

I wait for my score with a locked jaw.

"Sedna Dyan, with a score of…"

Nine.

I scored the same as Finn. I jump to my feet, elated. Who cares if I didn't score the highest out of all the tributes? That doesn't matter. The highest score doesn't necessarily mean anything. A Nine is good. Fantastic even. Brandi got a nine too, and he's incredibly talented. A nine is a great score. Somewhere I know, my dad is beaming with pride. I brought honor to District Four, and the best part? I tied with Finn.

I can feel his silent fury beside me, and that makes me even happier than a high score. Sure it will be great to win, but the only thing I'm concerned about right now, is beating Finn.

 **Lydia Light, 16, District Five:**

I repeat what our mentor said over and over in my head.

Careers usually get scores in the 8-10 range. Average tributes score between a 4-5. Anything lower goes unnoticed. Anything above is good.

When they break it down like that, the scores are easier to swallow. Bad scores don't really mean anything other than going unnoticed. And for someone like me, with burns like mine, sometimes going unnoticed isn't necessarily a bad thing.

Niko's score comes out first. He gets a five. Which is average, and obviously more than he thought he get. He smiles, happy.

I offer him congratulations and he thanks me. We don't really know each other that well and we probably never will, but Niko and I come from the same place. We lived the same lives. I think at some level, we both want the other to do alright.

I dig my nails into the arm of the couch when my picture pops up on the screen, and take another sip from the glass of water in my hand. I always drink more water, when I'm nervous. And tonight, I have every reason to be nervous.

I did my best at training. I learned a couple of new skills; like fishing, and tried to make myself a better tribute. Of course, watching the Careers, I knew I had no chance, but that didn't mean I wouldn't try.

I did my best and that's all I could do. I hope my scores reflect that. I just don't want a One. Everything else, I could live with.

"Lydia Light, with a score of…six."

Six? I'm so surprised the glass slips out of my hand and crashes to the floor, shattering into a thousand tiny pieces of crystal on the floor. But no one hears it or notices. Our mentor and Niko are screaming too excitedly to have even heard it. I'm immediately pulled into bear hug from Niko and our mentor.

I got a six.

I can hardly contain my smile.

 **Lincoln Nash, 16, District Six:**

I had a long chat with our mentor Jameson, before the score reveals. It's hard to talk to him sometimes, when his morphling-fried brain has trouble remembering things and talks out of order. It reminds me of home. Of my mom. That's probably why I'm better at talking to him than Tyler is. She gets frustrated with him too easily. She doesn't know how to talk to an addict. Not like I do anyway.

You just have to be patient. If you're patient, then you can usually get them to calm down long enough to hold down a real conversation. I don't begrudge Tyler for not being able too. My sister Jetta was the same way. She never had the patience required to discuss things with our mom. Even Otto had problems with it. I was the only one who was good at it.

So all it took was a little needing and a slice of cake to get Jameson talking rationally. He listened to my description of my private session and gave me a honest realistic impression of how he thought I'd do.

"Listen, Lincoln," he said, soberer than I'd ever seen him. "You're a nice, charming, good-looking kid with average skills. If you want to make it in this thing. If you really want to win, you have two choices; keep on being charming and make the audience love you, or become the strongest tribute in the arena. It's up to you."

I took his words to heart and thought a lot about them. I knew I couldn't be the strongest tribute in that arena. Not unless half of the Careers were to die off quickly, and that never happens. So instead, I decided to focus on being charming and gentlemanly. I'm decently skilled. If I can make the audience like me, then maybe I can win.

Tyler is a whole other kind of tribute. When I first met her, with her tiny stature and injured arm, I thought she was a goner for sure. But then when she started hanging out with the Careers? I was floored. Now I don't really know how to place her and I don't want too. I won't be her ally but I also won't cross her.

I sit with her and Jameson when the scores are on the television. The other tributes scores are pretty predictable. Although the girl from five scored higher than I thought.

When they get to my picture, I do my best to stay calm. My picture flashes for a moment and then they announce my score.

Lincoln Nash, score of five.

Jameson face falls and my stomach tightens. Five is average. Not a death sentence, but also not what I was hoping for. It only serves to prove what Jameson already told me. If I want to win, I'll have to be charming.

Tyler is next. Her broken arm is wrapped up in some white material our stylist gave her, and she rests it beside her on the couch. She watches the screen, but seems a little uninterested.

"Tyler Minroe, with a score of….seven!"

Jameson's wide eyes almost bug out of his face in surprise and my mouth hangs open. Tyler scored a seven? Tiny, disabled little Tyler, managed to score a seven?

I look over to her and see she's smiling, but not exuberant. Like she knew this was coming. Then I realize, she must have. No one allies with the Careers without knowing they've got a few tricks up their sleeve. In Tyler's case, only one sleeve.

I'm shocked I didn't see it before. Tyler is a competitor. And if I want to keep up with her, I better step up my game.

 **Morgan Mak, 17, District Seven:**

I hold Elm's tiny hand in mine. In the few days I've known him, he's already become like another one of my brothers to me.

He's sweet and honest, and his soul seems unbothered by all of the disaster that is going on around him. I admire that. I hope that is how Brent or Birch would approach this situation. And I would hope they would have someone like me to help them through it. That's how I remind myself it's a good idea to stay allied to Elm. He needs me. More than I need an older, stronger ally.

We watch the score reveals in silence. Elm is worried and too nervous to talk, so I respect that. It's not as if I'm one to comment on them anyway. It wouldn't do us very much good. I don't like taking bets on who will live and who will die. I just don't like to think like that, and to me that's what these scores are doing.

It's very predictable anyways. The Careers score high. Some score low. Some surprise. I don't pay much attention until Elm's tiny, face fills the screen.

The second he sees his own face, he panics, bringing one small hand to cover his mouth. I give his hand a reassuring squeeze.

"It will be alright," I tell him. "No matter the score, okay? We'll figure it out."

Elm nods carefully. "Okay, Morgan. Whatever you say."

Then his score is revealed; four. Perfectly average. That's good for the youngest tribute in the bunch. Elm seems pleased with it. He smiles.

"That's good!" I tell him. "Four is good."

"It's average," he corrects me.

I shake my head. "No, not for a twelve-year-old." That makes him smile.

Then it's my turn. My face is on the screen and my score rings through the room. Six.

I take a moment to consider it. Six. It's decent. Better than average, and better than I thought I would. I'm happy with it and everyone else seems to be too. Elm gives me a tight, excited hug.

"Better than average!" he cheers, with a wide smile. "You did it, Morg!"

He's happy and that makes me happy. I don't see the point in letting him know, it doesn't change our circumstances. We're still in a fight, and in a arena full of competitors, we're still only decent.

 **Junez Croster, 16, District Eight:**

I've been making a real honest effort to be nicer to the people on my team. And it's been really hard. Cecelia and I have nothing in common, but she tries her best to make sure she helps me in any way I can. It's not her fault that she also has Velvet. No one would like me better with her around. Velvet's a lot like me, quiet and guarded, but somehow, she manages to come off more pleasant. Out of the two of us, I'd rather spend time with her too.

But I know I have to be nicer, so I try. When we sit down to watch the score reveals, I sit right beside Cecelia and my stylist, trying my damndest to make pleasant conversation.

Velvet is curled up on her other side, in between Cecelia and her blue-haired stylist Tilly. I find the woman strange, especially her blue hair, but Velvet can't stay away from her. The two of them spend all of their time together, thick as thieves. Girls are weird.

We only half pay attention to the other tributes scores. Tilly and Velvet are talking in very, serious whispers and Cecelia keeps joining their conversation. My stylist doesn't like me, but watches the screen intently. I drift back and forth, half watching, half eavesdropping on Cecelia.

One of the attendants from the Capitols offer us all glasses of sparkling wine, and I decide to take one. I've never had wine before, and figure it might be my last opportunity to try it. The smell of it is strong and it tastes like berries and chemical. It makes me feel too loose in the head, a feeling I can't stand. I put mine down on the coffee table and shake my head.

"Too strong for you?" Velvet asks me.

She must have known what it was like or tried it before, because she doesn't have a glass of it in front of her.

"It's gross," I tell her. She chuckles.

The announcement of our District's scores is the only thing that makes us focus. I'm up first. Which is good because I'm the one whose paying closest attention. Although, I do notice Velvet's eyes focus forward to watch. My stern, unapproachable face fills the screen and then my comes my score.

Eight.

"Wow," Velvet whistles. Cecelia shrieks excitedly. Our stylists clap their hands together.

I scored an eight? How is that possible. I did one thing, and I left early. I was disrespectful, rude, and snarky. They must have liked it.

"Congratulations, Junez!" Cecelia tells me, beaming. She pulls me into a tight hug and I don't stop her. She's happy for me, proud even. I decide for once, I'll just enjoy it. I'll let her enjoy it.

Velvet's face is blank for a moment and then she offers me a big, white smile. "Congratulations," she tells me, softly. "This is huge."

I nod at the screen, were her face has now appeared. She turns, her red hair spinning as she watches her score announced.

"Velvet Wilkinson, with a score of….seven."

Velvet breathes out a sigh of relief and smiles once again. Our cheering team celebrates one more time. They're tributes, from an outlying district, scored a seven and an eight. They're proud. Velvet seems excited about her score too. Not even slightly upset that it's less than mine. She's exuberant. Not at all how other tributes usually act. I stare at her, mystified.

"I can relax a little now," Velvet says wiping her forehead. "Don't you feel better?"

I nod. "Yeah, we got good scores."

Velvet smiles and turns back to Tilly whose babbling something in her ear. My stylist is talking to me too, going on and on about how a tribute with that good of a score needs better clothes for his interview. I'm barely listening. I'm too caught up in thinking.

I scored an eight. That's almost a Career Score. I never thought I'd get a score like that. This means I have a better chance than I thought. I could win this thing. Then I look across the couch and see Velvet talking to Tilly, a wide smile plastered across her face, and remember one irrefutable fact.

If I want to win, then Velvet has to die. The girl whose been nothing but nice to me since this whole thing started. My stomach drops and I sigh, wishing I hadn't score quite so high.

 **Grain Garner, 16, District 9:**

Grant scored a two. The lowest score so far, and he cried, again.

Of course, our mentor Ala, fawned all over him, and so did the stylists. Poor little Grant. The weak tribute. The sad tribute. He's getting all of the attention for being useless. It's ridiculous.

What's the point of comforting him? If he's crying all the time and obviously the weakest link, he's a bloodbath for sure. Why waste time comforting him? They should be spending their time preparing me for the arena. I'm the one who has a real chance.

When my face appears on the screen, I have to practically shout it to the room to get them to pay attention. They do, but they're still busy holding Grant's hand through the process.

"Grain Garner, with a score of five!"

No one pays attention and no one reacts. They immediately turn back to comforting weeping Grant. I throw my hands into the air in frustration.

So, what if a score of five is perfectly average? Average tributes can still win! A tribute with a score of five has a way better chance than a tribute with a score of two. So why exactly are the adults around me, the ones who are supposed to be helping me, so focused on my infantile, whiny district partner?

It's infuriating and I get up and stomp back to my room. Grant will be dead withi the first ten minutes of the Games anyway. Maybe that's when the stylists and mentors will realize they should have focused on me.

That's fine. I can wait if I have too. The clock's already clicking on Grant life's, I just have to wait it out.

 **Crickett DeGraw, 17, District Ten:**

I'm actually excited about the score reveals. For the first time in my entire life, I actually worked really hard at training. I put in the time and the work, and I proved myself.

I wasn't a mayor's daughter in my private session. I was just another tribute. A tribute who was thirsty to prove themselves, without any advantage.

Gael of course will score better than me. I know that. He's got a natural talent and the years of life skills to back it up. But I did learn a lot and I did way better than I ever thought possible.

Gael and I sit right beside one another while we watch the score reveals. Our mentor, Wilmer, and our escort, Bellamy are the only two who join us. Bellamy does her best to keep us in good spirits, and Wilmer does his best to undo all of her work.

I try to ignore them both. I'm so worried, I can hardly keep my leg from shaking underneath me. Gael offers me sympathetic glances but I doubt he understands. He has to know he'll get at least a six.

"What Princess?" Wilmer asks me, "you nervous? I'd be."

My leg stops shaking long enough for me to shoot him an angry glance. Gael speaks up before I can spit anything back at out mentor.

"That's enough, Wilmer." Gael snaps. "We don't need your commentary."

Wilmer chuckles and tries to play with Bellamy's hair. She rolls her eyes and smacks his hand away.

"Ignore him," Gael tells me, offering me wide, toothy smile. "You'll do great. I saw you in training. You kicked ass."

I dig my nails into my palm to keep from blushing at his compliment. I need to focus now, and can't be distracted by Gael's good looks or charms.

We watch the scores of the two tributes from eight and are pleasantly shocked. The mean looking boy with the but in his eyebrows managed to score a ten, and the skinny redheaded girl scored a seven. Good scored

"Impressive," Gael chimes. "I wonder what they can do."

I shrug. "I guess we won't know until the Games. Unless they talk about in in their interviews."

"Do you think they will?" Gael asks. "They'd lose the element of surprise."

"They might gain sponsors that way, though," I remind.

Gael nods. "I didn't think of that. Good thought."

The scores from Nine have just been announced. The boy who's always crying scores the lowest score of the day so far, and the girl gets an average one. We don't even have time to talk about it before Gael's face is flashing across the screen, and we both freeze nervously. Bellamy and Wilmer are paying attention now too.

"Gael Yule, with a score of…nine!"

Gael's jaw falls open in shock and Bellamy lets out a shriek so loud I jump. Even crotchety Wilmer's eyes bug out of his face as they stare at the screen. Gael has scored as well as the Careers. He got a Careers score.

"Well Slap my ass and call me Sally," Wilmer says shaking his head. "You've gone and done it now."

Done what? Succeeded beyond their expectations or made himself a target? This is a good thing, Wilmer shouldn't be trying to take this away from him in any way.

"A nine?" Gael asks me in disbelief. "How is that even possible?"

I beam at him. "I told you. I knew you'd do well."

"Didn't know you had it in you, boy," Wilmer says. "I guess we might have a victor on our hands after all."

Gael shakes his head, still shocked but actually lets out a tiny smile. He looks genuinely proud of himself for the first time since the Games have started. It warms my heart to see him like this. He deserves to be happy about his score.

Then my face appears on the screen, and Gael reaches over to squeeze my hand. "You'll do great, Crickett."

"Crickett DeGraw, with a score of…"

I dig my nails into the seat tighter in anticipation. I've never been more nervous than I have in this moment.

"….three."

Three!?

How is this possible? I worked so hard, and I actually thought I did a decent job. Of course I didn't expect to get a Career score like Gael, but I thought I proved myself. I definitely thought a six. A five, maybe if they were judging harshly. But a three? That's what Marcus and Futura got, and they were useless. There's no way I earned a three in my private session. I had to have done something to make them hate me. I scan my memory of the sessions trying desperately to remember if I did something to upset or offend them, and nothing comes to mind.

My private session went well. I didn't deserve a three.

A silence hangs in the room, heavy and undeniable. Gael's face is frozen in discomfort, as he tries to avoid my eyes. He doesn't know what to say. Bellamy's mouth is agape and her eyes are crinkling. Wilmer starts to laugh.

"Guess it's a good thing that you're pretty, huh?" he asks. "I bet I can still rustle up a sponsor or two with a face like that."

"Wilmer!" Bellamy chastises him.

I don't let it phase me. I'm too furious. I get to my feet and cross the room, stopping right in front of him.

"There is no way I earned a three," I tell him venomously. "There has to be some sort of mistake, and as my mentor, don't you think that's your job to figure it out?"

"Me?" Wilmer chuckles and shakes his head. "Not a chance. It's not my fault, you sucked and got a pitiful score. If I were you, I'd spend the next couple days figuring out how to flirt with Capitol people, because that's about the only chance you have left at making an impression, doll face."

It takes everything in me not to slap him across the face. His words remind me of Romulus Thread, and his insinuations that I'm nothing more than a pretty face. Well you know what? I am more than that. I don't know what happened with those private sessions, but I proved myself. I'm capable of holding my own in that arena, whether or not Wilmer thinks so.

I try my best to compose myself before I walk off to my room, not wanting to cause a scene. Gael follows and grabs my arm the second I round the hallway.

"Crickett. I am so sorry about the way he treated you," Gael tells me. "That was cruel. He shouldn't have said those things about you and your score."

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second and compose myself before I speak. "I don't know what happened, Gael. My private session was good. I didn't earn a three. There's no way."

Gael chews on his lip. "Okay, well then, we'll have to show the audiences they were wrong then. Prove it to them in the Games."

I sigh. "You say it like it's easy."

Gael shakes his head. "It won't be, but it's doable. You have to show them what you can do, Crickett. Then it won't matter what score they gave you. We can make it look like you purposefully scored low."

He's being so kind and thoughtful, it makes me like him even more. He becomes a better person every single day.

"Thank you, Gael," I tell him. "I appreciate that."

"Don't think on it," Gael tells me, shaking his head.

I nod. "Congrats again, on your score. That's something to be proud of. I didn't mean to take any attention away from it."

Gael squeezes my shoulder. "Don't worry. You didn't."

He offers me one last smile and then heads back to the living room, where I can already hear another fight beginning between Wilmer and Bellamy.

I head back to my room, feeling lost and disappointed. Any tribute would be depressed about the news they just got. Scores are meant to be earned, and I didn't earn a three. But I needed this. Not just for sponsors or for the Games, but to prove to everyone that I was capable of being something other than a mayor's daughter. I was capable of being tough and strong, and able to take care of myself. I don't know why and I don't know how, but the Capitol stole that from me.

And I'm going to make them pay for it.

 **Bale Tempin, 13, District Eleven**

"Ooh," Melody brings her hand to her mouth as she watches Crickett DeGraw's score in unadulterated horror. "That's such a shame, to be Seventeen and score that low.

I shrug. It's not any of my business. I never know why they make scores public before the Games. If it really was just for sponsorship, they'd air scores once we were already in the arena. But that's not what they're for. The scores are so that we all know which tributes are worth hunting down and which ones aren't. Take District Ten for example, the boy Gael scored the same as some of the Careers, now they'll want to kill him for sure. But his district partner Crickett? She scored a three. They know there's no point in wasting time hunting her down. She's weak.

Our training scores are the first step in turning the rest of us tributes against one another. Most of us just don't know it yet.

So when my photo appears on the screen, I barely look. I can't escape hearing the score, thought. That's inevitable.

"Bale Tempin, with a score of..three."

Melody groans. So, does our mentor. I don't blame them. They were just feeling remorseful for Crickett DeGraw for getting that score. It's just as pathetic for me as it is for her. They have every right to be embarrassed. But me? I don't care. Not at all. I just want this whole thing to be over with.

Melody's next. She scores a four. Which isn't that much better than me, but at least falls into the average category instead of the poor.

That's all district eleven has to offer this year I guess. The average and the poor.

 **Cinder Mooreton, 16, District Twelve:**

I know how important this moment right here is. There are only two things that matter in the Games, winning over the Capitol and winning over your mentor.

Most people win over their mentor easily enough, being from the same district and all, but Haymitch still firmly prefers Shiloh to me. The hard part is supposed to be winning over the Capitol, but if my tribute parade is any indication, I've already done that tenfold. The people of the Capitol love me and my sparkling personality. It's with my mentor, that I have to do the most work.

Today will either help or destroy that.

If I score low, it will cement Haymitch's love for Shiloh and he will probably abandon the idea of helping me anymore. But if I score well, it could finally prove to him that I am someone worth looking twice at.

Shiloh goes first, and that's annoying. I have to sit through him and Haymitch discussing how much the Gamemakers appreciate someone with skills in things other than hunting. I almost snort. Right. Like identifying edible plants will thrill them? Come on.

I guess I must be right because Shiloh scores a five. He and Haymitch seem fine with it, neither elated or upset. Neither of them even look at me when they see his score. It's like I'm not even there. I know that I'll have to score way higher than that if I want to get his attention. I can only help my skill and confidence with the pick-ax was enough to save me.

I lean forward waiting anxiously for my score, and when my picture fills the screen, I wait in anticipation.

"Cinder Mooreton, with a score of…"

This is it. This will determine everything.

"…..eight!"

"YES!" I shout, jumping to my feet in pure ecstasy. I scored an eight! That's almost Career scoring. I did loads better than Shiloh.

Haymitch and Shiloh both stare at me in disbelief. It's obvious neither of them thought this was possible. That I could score that high.

Haymitch wipes a hand across his mouth and blinks quickly. "Well, Congratulations," he shakes his head. "I guess you do have a little fighter in you, after all."

It's a simple praise, but it's more than I've gotten from Haymitch since this whole thing started. To him, that's the highest kind of compliment. I know I've achieved what I wanted too, and Haymitch will start to pay attention.

I have to control my urge to smirk when I say "Thank you," and head back for my room, skipping as I do.

 **AUTHORS NOTE: SORRY FOR THE DELAY IN UPDATING TIME. THNKS FOR READING and dont forget to review!**


	24. The Interviews

**Authors Note:** OkAY so I know it has been a LONG time since I started this story but I decided I loved it too much to abandon it so I'm bringing it back in honor of the news that Suzanne Collins is writing another Hunger Games book! So here's the next chapter. I already have the story all outlined so I should be updating regularly. Sorry for wait, and hope you guys like it!

The Interviews:

 **Sedna Dyan, 18, District Four:**

I have to spend longer than Finn does working with Cassidy. The interviews are tomorrow, and Cassidy is worried that I don't have the crowd appeal that Finn does.

Sure, I got their attention at the tribute parade and scored high in training, but so did everyone else. In order to get and keep the Capitol's attention, I need something else. A gimmick.

Something that makes people remember and root for me. And Cassidy seems to be having trouble coming up with anything. We have only a few hours before my prep team interrupts and starts to prepare me for the evening.

Cassidy sits across from me in the living room of the training center, curled up in one of the large, fluffy armchairs. She's been staring me down for a long while, her face screwed up in concentration. She sighs and crosses one of her freckled legs.

"I just don't know what angle we'll go with for you, Sedna," she says disapprovingly. "Finn's for instance, is confidence. That's clear from the moment you meet him, he's almost arrogantly so. But you? I don't know." She pauses dramatically.

I almost snort. Of course, Finn would go with the confident angle. I'm actually glad he is. He's too confident. Something I'm sure will be his downfall. I'm glad I don't have such a shallow useless angle to the interviews. Every Career is confident. You need something more than that.

Cassidy gets up from her seat and circles me. "You're attractive, but not the most attractive Career, so I can't work the sexy angle. Maia's already cornered the market on that. And Aurelia from two is the bad-ass female powerhouse, so I can't do that either…"

"What about striking?" I ask her. "I'm tall, and with my green eyes and dark hair, it could work."

Cassidy shakes her head. "No, not striking enough. People can barely take their eyes off the pair from One or Ten on looks alone. And the girl from eight has vibrant red hair. The girl from Seven has the prettiest blue eyes you've ever seen. And Finn? He looks like a greek god. You aren't distinct enough to pull off striking."

Cassidy is blunt and to the point. I dig my nails into my palms to keep myself from turning red at her words. I always knew compared to Maia, my looks wouldn't completely stand out, but to hear Cassidy dismiss them like that, still hurts. She's supposed to be my biggest cheerleader, not tearing down any confidence I had.

I give her a nasty glare as she continues to circle me. It's not as if she is the most beautiful victor hanging around either. She's plain; freckled and ginger like a lot of the district. Boring. She certainly didn't garner any sponsors because of her face. Cassidy only won her year because it was a tropical arena, and District Four tributes always do better in a tropical arena. It's not as if she can offer me any advice in that category.

"How about funny?" I ask.

Cassidy raises an eyebrow. "Are you funny?"

I sigh, knowing the answer is no. Humor doesn't come naturally to me. I'd have to force it and then I'd come off as inauthentic. I move onto my next suggestion.

"What about if I come off humble?" I ask her, giving her an irritated glance "I did work hard to get here, you know."

Cassidy is already shaking her head before I even finish my sentence, and it only infuriates me more. So what, only she can shoot down ideas? I can't come up with anything?

"Why not?" I ask her, crossing my arms.

Cassidy rolls her eyes. "Because I didn't even believe you while you were pitching it, and anyway that's what all the tributes from the outlier districts do. They all act humble and like they can't believe a poor little person from District Whatever is here." She shakes her head. "What you need is to be different. Stronger. You're a Career."

She stares at me for a second longer and then her eyes get wide and she say's "Selfless."

"What?" I ask her skeptically.

Cassidy grins. "Selfless! It's perfect. You're the one whose doing this for your dad, right? For District Pride or whatever you were spouting the first night. Go with that! Most Careers go up there and talk about winning for themselves or some sob story about their upbringing. But you? You'll go up there and say you're doing it for the District. You're a martyr for the cause!"

I want to tell her that that wonderful strategy she just came up, isn't a strategy, it's what I've been doing the entire time. Her great idea was actually mine. But I don't, I just nod along and go on with the practice questions she gives me, knowing full well how important tomorrow is.

Tomorrow is my chance to prove to the Capitol that I'm better than Finn.

 **Morgan Mak, 17, District Seven:**

I can hardly breathe as Elm and I arrive behind the stage at the city center. This is it. We're about to do our interviews. It hardly feels real.

Of course, we spent the entire day yesterday preparing, both physically and mentally. Elm's prep was easy. It was mine that took all day. It became immediately clear to our mentors when we started prepping for the actual interview questions that I was incapable of lying. Or doing anything that even slightly resembled it.

I couldn't be arrogant or confident, because I wasn't. I couldn't be snooty or rude. I couldn't tear down other tributes. The only thing I was even remotely good at, was being sweet. And although it was very clear that my mentors despise this interview angle, I assure them it would be the only one I could accurately portray. My stylist agreed with this, and dressed me accordingly in a high-neck, sleeveless dress of flowing chiffon. It's baby pink and soft. My makeup matches. Just some blush and a dab of pink gloss. I look friendly, and unassuming. That was the goal.

Elm is dressed similarly, in a warm tweed suit. He looks young, childish. I assume that was by design. They want him too to look young and adorable, so it appeals to people's sympathy. Not that I think he needs it. Elm is stronger than everyone gives him credit for.

Elm clings to me when we arrive for the interviews. Only a few tributes are already here, mostly from outlying districts like ours, but they stare at us with sharp, narrowed eyes. District Nine tributes are standing away from one another, looking around the room nervously. The boy is weeping in a chair, and the girl is standing against the wall, twirling her simple, golden dress.

The pair from Ten stick by each other, they're both dressed in deep, royal blue, matching like they did at the tribute parade. They don't seem as harsh as some of the others. The girl even smiles at Elm when she catches him looking at her. He beams back.

I don't want to make friends here. That will only make it harder, but I also know it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to know people. That's how you make allies. And allies help you.

"Come on," I tell Elm, nudging him forward. "Let's go talk to them."

Elm's eyes almost bug out of his skull as I lead him towards the pair from Ten. I can't help but understand his hesitation. I'm breaking every rule I set for us so far.

"Are you sure?" he asks, when were only a few feet from them.

I give him a comforting nod and approach the other tributes. The girl smiles when she sees us, and the boy eyes us strangely. He's obviously the more reserved of the two.

"Hi," I tell them, offering the girl my hand. "I'm Morgan."

"Crickett," she tells me, shaking it. "This is Gael."

Gael gives me a curt nod and a tiny accompanying smile. The interaction feels forced and awkward. Not that I don't understand why. These people are our competition. It's hard to be friendly when most of us know they'd kill anyone in their way to get home. Of course, I don't feel that way. I doubt I'd be able to kill anyone, even if my life was threatened. But the other tributes don't know this. So, their silence at least makes sense if nothing else.

To my absolute surprise, it's Elm who speaks next. He faces Gael, his young face alive with color.

"Are you nervous?" he asks him, in a quiet tone.

Gael's face is unchanged for a moment and then he crouches down slightly so he doesn't tower over Elm so much.

"Everyone here is nervous," Gael tells him. "Even the Careers. If they tell you any differently, they're just trying to save face."

Elm's entire face lights up at Gael's words, and my mouth falls open. This is the powerhouse from Ten that scored a nine in training? I figured in order to get a score like that, he had to be as cruel and calculating as the Careers. I didn't expect…. Well, I didn't expect him to be nice.

"Thanks," Elm tells him. "I hope that's true."

"It is," Gael assures him.

I can hardly believe what's enfolding in front of me, but it's making me gloriously happy. I had my doubts as to whether there were still kind tributes in the Games, or if being reaped had turned everyone into some kind of savage. Gael has just confirmed my suspicions were wrong. They are still some kind people left. If Gael doesn't win, he'll be killed.

That almost makes it worse.

 **Shiloh Bellows, 14, District Twelve:**

I barely recognize Cinder when I see her.

Her hair hangs in a perfect curtain down her back, straighter and sleeker than I've ever seen it look it naturally. It's normally big and busy, but now it sits perfect. Not a single strand is out of place, making me wonder what they did to get it to stay like that. Surely it won't be able to stay like that in the arena, so I don't really see the point. Not that her stylists were going for the natural look. Her face is covered dark charcoal makeup and glitter. Her lips are drawn on in a bright pink. But all of this will be ignored by the audience. Instead they'll no doubt focus on what she's wearing. Her dress is silver, sleeveless and silky, falling over her body like a wave. The material has a sheen to it and every time she steps under a light, it shines and radiates, making it hard to look away from her. Her entire appearance tonight is screaming for attention.

I guess that's what she wants, after her eight in training. It certainly made Haymitch stop ignoring her. They spent four times longer together prepping for the interviews yesterday than we did. It seems as though Haymitch's allegiance has definitely changed. With Cinder scoring so much higher than me, he's decided she has a better chance of winning, and all but abandoned our plans. During prep, he barely spent any time on my interview angle.

"If I were you, kid?' he said. "I'd be funny. People remember funny."

It was the best suggestion I'd gotten in days. So, I spent a couple hours working on jokes, hoping that Cesar Flickerman would work with me. All I needed is one memorable line, and then to get the audience laughing. I can work the funny angle.

Cinder was the one who got the long prep, with the hours of questions and perfectly prepped responses. I wish I knew what she had done to manage an eight.

I shake my head, the only way I'd be able to find out is to run into her during the Games, and if she really did earn her eight, then I don't plan on it.

All of the tributes are already crowded behind the stage when we arrive. Cinder's dress receives some looks from some of the female tributes. I can't tell what their reactions mean, are they jealous, or think she's done too much? I can't tell. I never can with girls. But mostly they ignore us.

Cinder doesn't seem particularly keen on chatting with me, so we both fan out and separate. I don't feel like socializing today, I'm too nervous. I watch instead.

It's strange which tributes choose to mingle, and which ones don't. I try to pay attention, remembering that this is where ally relationships are probably made. The pair from District Seven and District Ten seem to be having a nice conversation. That's not really much to worry about. The tributes from seven are some of the weakest tributes here, and the girl from ten only scored a three. The only tribute in that group I'd worry about is that Gael kid. He scored a nine. I sincerely doubt someone who score that high plans on sticking with those three.

More of the tributes start arriving, including the pairs from Three, Six and Eight. Most of them stick with their district partners. That is until the Careers arrive.

They come in a group, loud and huge. All six of them arrive together, looking beautiful and menacing. They definitely have their intimidating presence mastered. At least six of the other tributes cower in fear when they see them. The others stare blank faced. Only that girl from Six, Tyler looks remotely excited to see them. She waves and trots over to them immediately, abandoning her district partner. I almost didn't recognize her. All throughout training, she kept her short dark black hair spiky and unbrushed, and exclusively wore baggy, cotton clothes. Now she's done up like a little fairy princess. Her hair is smooth and straight, secured with a shiny, pink barrette. Her dress is short, puffy and pink, and you can just tell it's making her miserable. From the face she's making, it looks like she's considering ripping it off and tossing her white Mary-Janes right at her stylist's head. Tyler's just approached the Careers when a voice behind me snaps me out of my staring.

"Shiloh, hello? Can I get a moment of your attention please?"

It's my stylist, Quille. She's behind me adjusting my tie again. It's gold and clashes with Cinder's dress, which doesn't surprise me. We've never been on the same page. It's not like we're a team.

When Quille finishes she looks me directly in the highs. "Now remember what Haymitch told you, be funny."

"I'll do my best," I tell her.

Quille frowns and gives me a look. She doesn't have to say anymore. I already know what it means. If I want to live, I'll have to do better than my best.

 **Tyler Minroe, 15, District Six**

I think I would rather face my death right this moment than go out in front of all of Panem the way I'm dressed right now.

My stylist is obviously an idiot, because she forced me into the most disgusting tool creation I've ever seen. Honestly. You know these people are from the Capitol, because no one from the districts would every pick out anything that made them look like a tulip.

When I saw the dress, with its white collar and puffy sleeves, I actually kicked and screamed. It took my stylist, the prep team and Jameson to force me into the hideous thing. They're were matching shoes too. Leather ones with little heels and matching frilly socks. I look like a 12- year old. A twelve-year-old who doesn't know how to dress. It's itchy and hideous and only puts me in worse mood.

And that was just the dress. The prep team made it ten times worse. They coated my face in blush and sticky gloss that makes me look ridiculous, and then dedicated hours straightening my hair and pinning it down with sparkly clips. The revolting one's that are pink and glittered. The kind my sister Chrysler would have loved. I throw a fit. I don't want the people of my district to see me like this. The boys I hang out with back home know I would never willingly wear something like this out. Let alone on National Television. It's just plain embarrassing.

I can't wait until this whole thing is over, so I can throw this stupid outfit in the trash. That's where it's destined for anyway. The whole outfit is frilly and ugly. The prep team even wrapped my makeshift bandage on my right arm in pink ribbon. The worst part of the whole thing is when I see Lincoln. All he has to wear is a simple dark blue suit. He looks clean and dapper. I beg and plead to get them to let me wear something like that, but they refuse.

It's not fair. Why do I have to suffer through this kind of torture and he doesn't? Because I'm a girl. That's ridiculous. I scored better than Lincoln, if anyone should be getting their way, it's me.

I ignore my entire team until we arrive at their interviews. They deserve it after what they put me through. Lincoln looks nervous the entire time, and that makes me feel a little guilty. I know Jameson put a lot of pressure on him for the interviews, after he scored low. Then again, at least he looks normal and not like a four-year old mayor's daughter on reaping day.

I stand alone, arms crossed and irritated until the Careers arrive. When they do, they show up in a group, loud and throwing glances at the surrounding tributes. I decide to go and join them, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little apprehensive.

I don't know exactly where I stand with them anymore. They seemed to like me enough during training, but that was before my seven in training. I don't know whether scoring high will make them like me more or less. But that doesn't stop me from approaching them. I've never been afraid of the Careers and I'm not going to start now.

When I approach them, Finn is whispering something in Maia's ear, but she's barely listening. She's throwing furtive glances at Sedna. Which is weird. I sort of thought they were friends. Did something change? Who knows. I never understand girls like that. The ones whose cattiness and self-absorption reminds me of my little sister. I get along better with the boys. I always have. Brandi and Sedna are laughing, but Brandi keeps looking over at Aurelia. She doesn't seem to notice. Neither her or Lykon are speaking, but that's not weird from them. Those dudes are silent. I learned very quickly that no amount of joking or prodding during training could get either of them to crack a smile. Now they just stare at the floor, looking bored. I notice their stylists dressed them both in black. It makes them look even more lethal.

"Hey guys," I say happily the group.

Maia's eyes flash darkly at me when I speak. They're coated and lined in thick, dark makeup that makes her and her glare even more terrifying. Both her dress and her lips are a bright, bloody red that matches her brother's tie. The color looks garish on them both, like they're already drenched in blood. On Brandi, it brings out the red scar that's slashes through his eyebrow. The two of them standing together like that, is even more terrifying. Brandi squeezes Maia's arm and she stops glaring, like they have some kind of non-verbal twin language.

"Hey there, Righty!" Brandi beams, clapping me on the shoulder. He is using that strange voice again. The one he always does with me. "How'd you manage a Seven in training?"

I beam and shrug casually. "Oh, you know. I wowed them," I joke. "I couldn't be a part of the Career pack without a kick-ass score, could I?"

Finn is the one who's glaring at me now. "No, you couldn't," he says icily.

I know enough about this fragile group to know that he and Maia are the ones who don't like me. Brandi and Sedna are entertained by my presence and Aurelia and Lykon don't seem to care either way. That means I need to stick with Brandi or Sedna if I don't die want to die immediately. That doesn't bother me much. They seem like the most fun anyway.

"Nice outfit," Maia says snarkily and tosses her perfectly curled blonde hair over her shoulder. It's clear she knows how bad my outfit is. It even seems to please her.

"Now, Maia. Play nice," Brandi chides her. Maia's answering growl is enough to make Aurelia look up from the floor.

I decide to ease the tension. That's supposed to be my job in this group anyway.

"Looking forward to the interviews?" I ask them.

"Definitely," Sedna says, straightening her short dress. Her tone has become increasingly flirtier. "This is the most fun part, obviously."

"No," Lykon says, his voice hard. "These are pointless."

Brandi rolls his eyes. "They're for charming the audience, Two. Something I will no doubt be excellent at." Maia snorts, but her eyes look worried. She must know her brother isn't bluffing, and that irks her. Does that mean she's not charming? Or Brandi is too good at it?

"I just want to get this whole thing over with," Aurelia says grumpily, crossing her arms "and take this stupid dress off."

Brandi stares at her again, and Lykon seems to notice, raising an eyebrow back at the male twin. Is it a power move or something? I can't tell. Brandi doesn't say anything and turns to Sedna.

"Still think the kid from three is a genius?" he asks. Sedna launches into a whole story about something she overheard at training, and Brandi appears to be listening, but it's clear he's still clocking Lykon. That makes sense. They're both male careers, they're each other's biggest threats and they haven't interacted much.

It's strange. Both Brandi and Lykon are blonde and blue eyed, but they couldn't be more different. Lykon looks a regular guy on steroids. He looks like he could kill someone with just brute force, but Brandi? He's supermodel beautiful, with perfect bone structure and eyes that could turn any normal girl into a puddle. But, I know enough about him to know some serious skill and terror lies behind that cruel, attractive face.

It looks like Maia is about to say something, but she doesn't get the chance. Finn pushes past her, a devious smile on his face. The pair from eight, the skinny redheaded girl and the snarky, creepy-looking boy have just entered the room, attempting to walk past us. I watch as Finn's eyes zero in on the redheaded girl. Maia and Brandi both groan and Sedna rolls her eyes. They must know something I don't.

"Hey, Red!" Finn shouts her. The girl stops and looks at him, wide-eyed. She's wearing makeup and a strapless dress, both of which make her look older than usual, but doesn't hide the fear in her wide, naïve eyes.

"Really, Finn? You're going to do this now?" Sedna demands of him. "You're an idiot."

"Mind your business, Sedna," Finn snaps and turns back to the redheaded girl.

He smiles, and while Finn is a good-looking tribute, there is something extremely sinister about his smiles.

"What?" he asks the redhead. "Don't have any more knives to throw at me tonight?"

The girl's eyes widen even more, and I realize what he's talking about. In training, when the girl missed her target and the knife almost hit Finn. I had forgotten about that, considering it was so insignificant. It was an accident. But it most not have been to Finn.

"It was an accident," the girl tells him, mirroring my thoughts. "I'm sorry,"

Her district partner is watching the situation closely, and his eyes start to narrow. Something about him makes me uncomfortable.

Finn moves closer, so that he's only a few feet in front of her. It doesn't matter then that Finn is only sixteen, barely older than her. He's tall and threatening. He's a Career. I watch as the girl stops breathing, her body tightening in fear. Even in evening clothes and without the threat of the arena, the girl knows she's being targeted.

"Oh, don't worry, Red," Finn gives her another cruel smile. She relaxes a little.

Then he says, "You will be sorry. I'm going to make sure I return one of those knives to you in the arena."

He drops his voice, so only those closest can here. "Right into your chest."

The girl looks like she's about to faint now. Her district partner sneers at Finn and yanks her away from him by the arm, not stopping until they're back with their mentor and stylists. From the looks on their faces as they walk away, I know they're both terrified. I would be too, if I were them, being threatened by the Careers is no joke. These are some scary dudes. The redhead will be dead in the first ten minutes.

"Were all the theatrics really necessary?" Aurelia asks Finn when he struts back to us. "You could have just targeted her in the bloodbath."

Finn smiles. "Oh, I will. But this way, she knows it. It's better that's she's afraid."

Sedna rolls her eyes. "You're so arrogant."

"Talented," Finn corrects her, not looking up from his nails, but letting his upper lip curl slightly.

"Right," Sedna snorts. She teeters on her long legs looking annoyed. "I'm sure you think so."

Finn flashes her a devious grin. "Not me, the Academy in Four."

"You mean the one's you sucked up to for years?"

"I was chosen at Sixteen, you moron," Finn snaps. "That means they think I'll beat you even though I'm younger. How does that feel?"

Sedna chuckles, "Sounds to me like they couldn't stand to wait another two years to get you off their hands. Otherwise they'd keep letting you train and give you the best shot possible at eighteen."

No one's listening to them anymore. Sedna and Finn have been fighting this entire time. One of their fights is nothing new, and frankly it's getting a little boring.

Brandi's is straight up ignoring them, scanning the crowd of tributes with a mild interest. He spots someone and nudges his sister in the ribs with his elbow.

"What?" Maia asks, slightly irritated.

"There's the boy from Ten. The one who scored a nine." Brandi says.

Aurelia and Lykon's ears both perk up. They're gazes are perfectly mirrored, following the twin's eyeline.

"The one in the blue suit, right?" Lykon asks, his massive shoulders spread slightly making him look even bigger than normal. It's a power move, and it's working. He looks huge.

Brandi nods. "Yup. That's him."

Aurelia shakes her head. "He's strong. Big too. Wonder how he got that score?" Her lips purse carefully and it's clear she thinks somethings up. She's confused. It's strange to see her with any expression on her face. Normally, she and Lykon are stoic. Like you could take an ax and slam it into their legs and they still wouldn't react.

"He's got to be a bloodbath," Brandi says firmly. "or killed on the first night. And that girl from twelve. The one with the eight. We can't have strong outliers running around."

"Agreed," Aurelia says.

"Definitely," Lykon adds, nodding firmly.

"The boy from 8 also scored high," Aurelia says quickly, her lips pursed. "Add him to the list." Brandi is nodding in agreement before she even finishes her sentence.

I can hardly believe my ears. They're talking about targeting two of the strongest outliers in the group like it will be easy. Then I remember they're the Careers and it will be. Suddenly, I'm a little worried about my new alliance. I wanted to join the Careers to enjoy what little time I had left, and the Careers always have the most fun. I didn't consider what I'd be witnessing and participating in to have a good time. These might not be the cool dudes I thought they were.

Maia nods her head, "I'll fill in Finn and Sedna in." She turns around and breaks up the fight and fills them both in on their newest targets.

Brandi looks to me, "Now that's sensitive information, Righty." He warns. "You want to be a Career, you act with us. Got it?"

I nod my head. I don't have a choice now. "I'm in."

 **Lydia Light, 16, District Five:**

I could cry. I feel like it. For the first time in months, I actually feel beautiful. Truly beautiful. My stylist and prep team managed to turn me into someone who doesn't resemble a hideous monster. That alone, is worth the death that's sure to come in the arena.

It took hours. I'm sure four times as long as everyone else. My prep team took hours carefully styling my hair into loose waves that hide the bulk of my burns. Then they very carefully hid more of it with makeup. They did everything everyone else got, glittered eyelashes, pink lipstick, the whole nine yards. By the time they're finished, my face still shows the burns but they're so much less noticeable than before. I burst into tears when I saw my reflection.

They gave me a beautiful dress too. A short, flowy sleeveless dress that's a pretty blue color.

My stylist tells me the color will make my burns less bright, and she's right. I feel so pretty, I'm actually excited for the interviews.

That is until we meet up with the rest of our team. Niko wears a new suit and tells me I look nice too. But it's what our mentor says that devastates me most. We spent two hours earlier deciding that my interview angle should be kind, polite. But now with one look at me her face fills with anger, and she shakes her head.

"Okay, new tactic. Forget being kind. Play the disability. I want you to spend the entire interview talking about your burns. Tell them how much they hurt. How it they make you look weird, and how if you win, you can afford to get them fixed. Really make them feel bad for you okay?" she says.

"But why?" I ask her. "Why can't we just stick with what we said before, and I can be kind?"

I feel so beautiful right now. I really don't want to ruin it by bringing up my burns.

My mentor rolls her eyes. "Because I thought your burns would be noticeable, like they usually are. They speak for themselves, but now? You'll have to remind people of them. Trust me, they saw the reapings, they'll remember them."

My heart is broken. I don't know what to say. She has just single-handedly ruined my entire evening. I don't know why I'm even surprised. I always knew all I would be to the Capitol was the disfigured tribute.

My mentor has just made sure that's all I'll ever be.

 **Maia Boyle, 18, District One:**

My interview angle has been clear from the moment I set foot on the stage. Anyone with eyes knew that I was one of, if not the, most beautiful tribute to ever enter the arena. Sure, I'm skilled and careful too, but it's my beauty that really makes people pay attention to me.

My stylists have spent the entire pre-Games events praising me for my perfect hair, sculpted lips and thick eyelashes. I've made their jobs so easy.

So naturally, my interview look was decided very early on. I'm sexy all the way. Sexy and deadly. My stylists did an excellent job of highlighting my natural perfections and making them even better. My eyes are lined with dark, thick charcoal. My lips are coated in blood-red lipstick. They curled my long silvery hair into big ringlets that drape perfectly across my shoulders, making it look even more enviable than it did before. Beautiful isn't a strong enough to word to describe how I look. It's almost haunting. I am perfect.

But it's the dress that makes the biggest impact. It's skintight, red and sequined, draping down to the floor to show off my curvy, toned figure. The neckline plunges to reveal generous amounts of cleavage, and my large opal necklace sits perfectly between my breasts. Every single male in Panem will be unable to look away from me tonight. Even the tributes.

And the idea of that leaves a permanent smirk on my face. Let's see how Brandi tops this.

I had to go all out tonight. Up until this point, I was part of a set. One of the two gorgeous twins from District One. Brandi's face was identical to mine. Just as beautiful as I was. But now? I am stunning. And after my high score in training, I will be the only Boyle twin any one is rooting for. I have to be.

Brandi has been insufferable for the last two days. Probably because he scored lower than me in training. Something that has delighted me, and no doubt infuriated him. He was too arrogant. Golden certainly seems to think so. She barely looked away from him before the score reveals, and now she follows me everywhere, latching on to who she knows will surely be the Victor. I swear she's spent all day yesterday playing with my hair and telling me all about the fashion that she got to wear on the victory tour. Brandi pretends it doesn't bother him as he flirts with her, desperately vying for her attention again, but he cannot fool me. I know him. And I know he hates it when he is not the favorite. It's a nice change of pace. This time, I am the perfect twin.

I recognize the angry twitch in my brother's mouth when I step into the elevator. It's jealousy. Sure, he looks handsome in his tight, black suit and red tie, but compared to me? It's not enough. I have won this round, and he knows it.

I fill me with a deep, sick sense of pride. I ride that feeling until we meet up with the other Careers. I notice both Finn and Lykon eye me with interest as they approach. That's when I know I've done exactly what I set out too. Finn's eyes linger on me for a good amount of time, slowly raking up and down my body before settling on my face. I smirk back. I recognize the look in his eyes. It's the same ones the boys back home have when they look at me. Finn wants me. And I can use that to my advantage in the arena.

But the moment I see Sedna, I feel a rage rip through my body. I have to fight back the angry metallic taste that fills my mouth. She has some nerve. Showing up like this. Who does she think she's kidding?

Sedna's wearing a very short, very tight, strapless blue dress, covered in sequins. She's too tall for it, and her legs stretch on like a giant. I snort, she probably thinks it looks good on her, but I know better. Her face is covered in makeup too, even more than she wore on during the Tribute Parade. It's clear what she was trying to go for, but my look cannot be easily replicated. She doesn't have my body. Or my face. Not even close.

From the irritated way Finn keeps looking at her, I can see he feels the same. He is slowly becoming my favorite member of the Career pack. He thinks more like I do. More than my brother does anyway.

I have to remind myself that I'm wearing bright red lipstick to keep my upper lip from curling in anger at her. But it's difficult, I have to settle for glowering at her the entire time. It's a shame. I liked Sedna fine before this, but now she's gotten on my bad side and that's not a place people come back from easily. She seems to sense this and tries harder to please Brandi, whose more easily swayed.

The irritating little bitch from District Six joins us the minute we enter the room with the other tributes. For reasons I don't understand, Brandi seems to be entertained by her and lets her tag along. I don't see the point. She's going to be dead by tomorrow. At my hands. Finn and I exchange a look of irritation as she jokes, and I know he hasn't forgotten our plans to kill her.

I actually smirk as we discuss our bloodbath plans with her. She has no idea that Finn and I have already added her to our list. She can't be that annoying when I bury a knife in the side of her head.

"Irritating, isn't she?" Finn asks as the two of us stand off to the side, surveying Brandi and Sedna laugh at something Tyler has said.

"Irritating isn't a strong enough word," I tell him, my eyes narrowing at the sight of her. From the corner of my eye I see the boy from District 6 eyeing me with interest. I ignore him. Please. Like that would ever happen. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the shiny table beside him, and smile that I still look as perfect as I thought.

"Don't worry," Finn assures me darkly. "She's going to get hers the moment the gong rings out."

A wide cruel smile stretches across my mouth, and I don't let my eyes leave the sight of her. "You'll have to fight me for her."

"We'll flip for it," Finn winks, and an excitement fills me at the prospect of it. It will surely be one of the most satisfying kills of the Games. Almost as much fun as killing Brandi will be. "You're on," I purr seductively, very aware of Finn's lingering gaze. Tonight, has been proving to be very beneficial for me already. Once I crush my interview, it will be the perfect night.

The lights in the front of the stage began to flash and the rest of us line up in District Order, girl first then boy. I am the first interview of the night. It's the perfect slot. Everyone always remembers the first. I take a deep breath and straighten my shoulders before I traipse onto the stage with a sultry, winning smile. It's the smile of a Victor.

 **Aurelia Vespillo, 18, District Two:**

I repeat the list over and over in my head as I sit on the stage watching the interviews. The list that my stylist Wilhelmina has drilled into my head over and over a hundred times over the last two days; Cross your legs, sit up straight, don't scowl, and smile.

I handle the first two fine. The third one's a challenge. The fourth is just impossible. There is no way I will be able to sit through twenty-three interviews and smile like this is my favorite thing in the world. As if I actually care about any of them. I'll be lucky if I can manage a smile during my own.

I take my seat between Brandi and Lykon on the stage and think that this is the one part of the Games where Saxia would be a better tribute than me. She's the kind of girl who can wear a strapless dress and flirt with Cesar. She could be charming and likeable. Interviews would make people like her more, unlike me. She's alluring. I'm about as alluring as a slab of cement.

My escort and mentor made that clear yesterday, when we found out the only interview angle that would work for me was strong. Brutus' final words of advice was to try not to be so unlikeable. My response was to throw a fork at his head. He managed to catch it before it took his eye out.

Lykon and I are practically the same tribute. Quiet, strong and incredibly talented, but he's allowed to be surly and scowl. It makes him tough. But when I do it, I'm unlikable. It's sexist. And I find it ridiculous. I can do anything Lykon can do. Probably better.

It just makes me hate the interviews more. They're a waste of my time. It's just a chance for the pretty tributes to get more attention, and I don't care about any of that. I want to win the Games, not the interviews.

What do they really show you, anyway? Besides which one of us has Stylists who actually care. The Hunger Games isn't about fancy dresses and lipstick, so I don't understand why we have to participate in this ridiculous charade. It's not as if it has any merit on who will this thing. Oh, the girl from ten is wearing a beautiful dress? That's not going to stop her from getting axed to death during the bloodbath, so who cares?

The Capitol claims the interviews are for getting to know us better. To make us more likely to get sponsors. It gives us an opportunity to brag about ourselves.

I've never been a braggart. I don't see the point. You should let your skills speak for themselves. If you have to tell people you can kill savagely, then you're probably not that good at it.

And anyway, we already know who the real competitors are, and I'm sure the people of the Capitol do too. It's not as if any of the tributes who have hidden special skills are going to reveal them now. The smart ones will wait until the arena.

I think of my sister Octavia. If she were here she would tell me to try and be more charming. She would tell me it would add to my skills, but that's where Octavia and I have always differed. I've never cared what anyone thought of me, I'm not going to start now. The Capitol will like me when I win. From my seat up on the stage I can see that there must be thousands of people in the audience. Thousands of people who probably are already betting. Who have already made their choices and predications. Tonight, will do very little to change that.

I sit up straight and let myself look around while Cesar Flickerman makes his opening speech. He's wearing his classic diamond studded suit and his hair that changes color for every Hunger Games is a bright red this year. I think it makes him look stupid. But then again, I think this whole thing is stupid. I focus on trying not to scowl or look too bored.

When he announces Maia, she struts up to the stage like she owns the place and the audience collectively sighs. Whether it's from jealousy or desire, I don't know. They're clearly pleased with how she looks. Maia's stylists have definitely played the sexy card. The rest of us don't really stand a chance with her looking like that. I saw the way the other female tributes looked at her. Particularly the girls from District 10 and 12. The ones who on a normal year could pull off sexy, but pale in comparison to Maia. Even Sedna, whose pretty enough, looks plain compared to her. I don't even want to know what I look like standing next to her. Not that I care much.

The problem is that Maia's not entirely useless. She's probably the only other Career I worry about besides Lykon. Sure, Brandi is a savage, but Maia has skills. This praise isn't unwarranted. She could go far.

Being beautiful always seemed useless to me but listening now to the Capitol audience scream her name, I know she has an advantage. Her and her stupid blonde hair.

She is a natural at the interviews. She manages to pout and wink at all the right moments and has a gentle back and forth with Cesar that reminds me of her mentor, Golden Hendricks. She has a very memorable little bit where Cesar has her do a hair flip and the crowd goes wild. When they talk about her ten in training, she makes sure to stress that she's deadlier than she looks. Beside me, her brother snorts, and tries to catch my eye. I ignore him.

I personally think she's overdone it. She sounds like an ass. But the Capitol audience screams, and she looks pleased with herself as she sits down, and Brandi takes her place.

If Maia did well in her interview, then Brandi wipes the floor with everyone else. There's something about the way he eyes the audience, and flirts that has them all roaring. It's all show, and Brandi is performing. Everything he says is dripping with confidence and double entendre, and Cesar loves it.

"So, Brandi," Cesar says, looking very eager "I know the whole audience is dying to know. Handsome man like yourself, is there a special girl back home?"

Brandi leans back in his chair, looking at the audience instead of Cesar and cockily raises an eyebrow. "Not yet, Cesar, but after seeing some of these people in the Capitol I might have to start looking when I win."

The whole audience fawns and Cesar begins to laugh. Beside me, Lykon snorts and we exchange and irritated eye roll. Brandi is pandering. And we both know it.

His interview ends with mentioning his token, a gold cuff with a flashy diamond, and Brandi makes some stupid soundbite about Diamonds being the strongest jewel that has his sister scowling. His applause might be louder than hers was.

Now it's my turn, and Cesar stands announcing my name.

"So, Aurelia. May I call you Aurelia?" Cesar asks quickly, offering me a smile. He's being friendly. Too friendly. I find it weird.

I do my best to return the smile, but it just becomes a purse-lipped nod. "Yes."

"May I just say, you had quite a presence at your reaping," Cesar says kindly. "I think from the moment you stepped on that stage everyone knew you were a strong contender. What made you want to volunteer?"

This is a question I can answer. One I don't have to think too hard about or make sound nicer than it is. I have the truth. I straighten up and look him directly in the eyes when I answer.

"I'm tough," I tell him. "And year after year I watched people win the Games and become Victors who weren't as tough as me. Not as strong. People less skilled, less determined. I figured if they could do it, I could."

"With a training score of ten, I'd say you've got some decent chances," Cesar praises, and the audience hoots appreciatively. A hint of a smile crosses my face.

"You don't need chances if you have skills," I tell him carefully, trying to keep my voice lighthearted, but there's a definitive trace of harshness there. I like it. It reminds people that I'm not a silly, pretty tribute. I'm here to win. I'm a god damn competitor.

"Isn't that the truth?" Cesar laughs. "Well we all wish you luck, Aurelia. Even if you don't need it." Cesar claps me happily on the back.

We spend the next minute and a half talking about stupid forgetful things, and I nod along trying to make it look like I care but knowing I must look bored.

I am uncomfortable, and I don't care if anyone in the Capitol knows it. I'll be comfortable the one place it counts; the arena.

 **Finn Landers, 16, District Four:**

Sedna is unraveling. That much is clear from her pathetic ensemble tonight. She shoved herself into a tiny dress and coated her face in makeup, trying desperately to make herself stand out when in reality she's nothing more than average. She's trying to be Maia, and it's not working. She's not pretty or talented enough. She's useless and forgetful and I wouldn't be surprised if she doesn't survive the first night in the arena. I know I'll take her out the first chance I get, if someone doesn't beat me to it.

She's not like me. I know how to make people like me. Not that it's hard. I'm good-looking, talented and have the skills necessary to win this thing. I didn't have to waste half my life on a fishing boat. I spent every free minute I had training for this. And now? I'm ready to show it off. This interview is going to solidify my status as the youngest Career victor. The Capitol will love me. Everyone will be tripping over themselves to sponsor me after this.

The interviews are boring to sit through, and my leg bounces in anticipation of the moment it's my turn. Some of these tributes suck so bad they have to know that they're bloodbaths. I mean honestly, listening to the Girl from three talk is just painful. I watch the audience instead. Brandi and Maia's interviews are decent. I think Maia does better. I watch her the entire time she's talking. It's actually distracting how good she looks tonight. Has she always been that hot? Damn. She makes Alexa look ugly.

I wish she had been in a different Games. If she was in an arena with anyone other than me, she'd probably win. But she's not, and there can only be one victor. And it's going to be me.

Aurelia and Lykon practically give the same interview, and it's boring. They both look like they'd rather pull their fingernails off than talk to Cesar, and it shows. I don't care how skilled either of them are. They're not going to get sponsors like that. And everyone knows sponsors keep you alive. That's the one thing I'm not worried about. By the end of tonight, I'll have more sponsors than anyone else. The boy from Three gives a weird interview. He's some sort of Brainiac who knows facts about every Hunger Games of the last ten years. Cesar quizzes him on tribute names and deaths and he gets them all right. I roll my eyes. So, what? That's not going to keep him alive in the arena. Let's see how fun his little trivia game is when I shove my trident through his stomach. Then he claims he knows exactly whose going to win the Games. But he says he won't reveal it now of course. The audience seems intrigued by that, by I know he's full of shit. It's a tactic to make people think he has a chance, which he doesn't.

Sedna's interview is the most cringe-worthy one. She's desperately trying to come off charming and it's not working. Her angle is District Pride which is stupid because we're in the Capitol and no one cares. Anyone who wins brings pride to their District. She sounds like one of the pathetic outlier tributes. The ones who die. I think of all the people back home from the Academy watching this. They're probably embarrassed for her. They know she's going to lose. Well, everyone except Murray. But who cares what he thinks. If he's into Sedna, he clearly has poor judgment. Everyone else in the District knows I'm the real tribute.

At the very end of her interview, Sedna takes the time to apologize to her friend Serena and I almost burst into laughter. What an idiot. Does she really think Serena is going to forgive her for taking her spot in the Games? Of course not. Especially after she loses. But she doesn't have to worry. When I win and go back to District Four, I'll comfort Serena…

By the time they announce my name, I am beyond ready. I strut up to Cesar shake his hand and wave at the audience. They yell so loud for me its almost deafening. I have the loudest applause by far.

"So, Finn," Cesar says, once were seated. "I don't think we've ever had such a young volunteer before. How does it feel to be the youngest Career in the Games?"

"It feels fantastic, Cesar," I tell him confidently. "Almost as good as it will feel to be the youngest Career winner."

The crowd bursts into howls and I can feel the envious stares of my fellow tributes behind me.

"We do like a confident young man, don't we?" Cesar jokes to the audience and they yell again. I know I've hooked them. They love me.

"Confidence is the key," I say, leaning back into my chair, "Anyone who isn't confident knows that they have no chance of winning. I know what I can do. Why be shy about it? I want to give everyone a good show."

"And I have every confidence that you will," Cesar says.

I don't need his confidence. I have enough of my own. There is not a doubt in my mind that I will be the Victor of the 59th Hunger Games.

 **Lincoln Nash, 16, District Six:**

I don't know how Tyler comes up with this stuff. It's like she just knows what she has to do in order to stay ahead of everyone else. She gave a great interview. She was funny and easy-going. She told the entire Capitol that she thought this whole thing was fun. That she was going to enjoy as much of the games as possible. And then she made a joke about taking out another tribute left-handed that had the entire audience roaring in laughter. You could just tell Cesar liked her. He didn't stop laughing the entire time she was up there.

She's a young, tiny tribute with a broken arm and still she manages to upstage everyone else, all of the time. I don't know how she does it, but she keeps surprising everyone. By the time the Games are aired, and everyone sees she's a part of the Career Pack, she's going to be a fan-favorite. If I was a worse person, I'd kill her. But nobody kills their district partner unless they're a total savage. How could you do that? How could you go back to your district after doing something so horrible? No one decent could.

By the time they get to my interview, I'm completely stressed out. Jameson told me to be likeable. Charming. I thought I had a decent chance when I saw the District five interviews. The boy, Niko was quiet and didn't say much. The girl, Lydia practically burst into tears about how if she won she would finally get the surgery to fix her burned face and the audience seemed to pity her but not respond too much. I felt okay about my chances, until Tyler made Cesar cry he laughed so hard.

It's a tough act to follow and I'm practically shaking as I take the seat beside Cesar. He introduces me and tells me he likes my suit.

"Thanks Cesar," I smile. "I like it too. Although somewhere I know my brother and sister are watching this and are criticizing the way I've tied my tie." The audience chuckles, familiar with sibling teasing, and I smile.

Cesar grins and leans closer to me. "Are you the youngest then?"

I give a comforting nod. "Oh yeah, of three. The teasing is relentless."

An intense sense of relief washes over me as I mention my siblings. I miss them so desperately that talking about them calms me down. They're the reason I'm still trying. The only reason I have to win.

Cesar places his hand over his heart. "I have two brothers. I feel your pain, Lincoln."

"I hope maybe if I win this thing, they'll ease up a bit," I say, "But they'll probably tell me my head looks to big with the crown on it."

The audience laughs again, and Cesar leans back in his chair chuckling.

"Tell you what," he says patting my shoulder. "You win and tell them they can't move into your mansion with you unless they ease up? Guarantee that'll work."

"You haven't met my sister Jetta. The girl is tougher than a Peacekeeper."

Cesar pretends to frown. "Well in that case, I don't know. Perhaps your sister might be scarier than the Games!"

The crowd laughs again, and I silently hope I've followed Jameson advice. I need to be likeable. Otherwise, I'm dead for sure.

 **Elm Halloway, 12, District Seven:**

Morgan is so sweet. She really is the nicest district partner I could have ever hoped for. I don't know why she continues to ally with me, especially when she could do so much better. She's nice, but she's skilled. She can climb trees and use an ax. She could be a real competitor if she wanted to be, but still she chooses to hang around with me. Our mentor told me it's because she has little brothers. I must remind her of them. There's no other reason for her to want to join up with the likes of me. She's trying to protect me, even if it costs her her life in the process. I am enamored by her when she gives her interview. She is very sweet when she talks about her life back home in District Seven. About how she misses her family and making furniture on warm sunny days. When Cesar asks her how she thinks she'll fair in the Games, her face grows sad and she says she doesn't think she could ever kill any one, and the entire audience sighs for her. By the end of her interview, two things are clear; the entire Capitol adores her and she is going to die early on. When I give my interview, I try to be even half as sweet as my ally is, because without Morgan I don't know what I would do.

 **Velvet Wilkinson, 16, District Eight:**

I can't shake the taste of honey from my mouth. Even as I sit on the stage, listening to interview after interview, all I taste is honey.

I know why. It's because today is my birthday. And every year, no matter how little money we had, or how bad things were, my mother always managed to get her hands on a bit of honey to soak our bread in and create a makeshift cake. And today, even though I'm wearing the nicest dress I've ever worn and have eaten the most delicious foods I've ever tasted, the only thing I want to be doing while I turn sixteen is sitting at our tiny wooden table eating grainy bread and honey. It doesn't feel like a birthday without it, and since this is the last one I'm going to have, I feel cheated.

I tried not to think too much about it while I got ready for the interview. Tilly let me help choose the style of my dress and it turned out better than I ever could have imagined. A strapless dress covered in layers of purple tulle that stops at my calf. The silhouette is flattering and hides how skinny I am. I think I may have gained a few pounds from all the rich Capitol food I've been eating the past few days, but not enough to wear something tight. We wouldn't want the Capitol to see what a real hungry person looks like, would we? That might make the Games less fun for them.

There's a purple velvet belt at my waist, that Tilly insisted I needed after she found out I'd never felt the fabric after which I was named. I keep running my hands over it. Its soft and I like the way it moves. I study her careful stitches, knowing even if I had all of the materials at home I could never make something this nice. It's the most extravagant and beautifully made thing I've ever worn, but it's also a little depressing. I could be dead by tomorrow morning. This is practically my funeral dress.

It makes me look older too, though it could also be the makeup. My eyelashes are framed with a black substance, making them look twice as big and my lips are coated in dark pink. My prep team had dusted a tan color across my face that they assure me makes my cheekbones look impeccable. I think of what Tweed or Seam would say if they saw me like this. If it wasn't for my hair, vibrant as always and knotted at the base of my neck, they probably wouldn't recognize me. It might be nice to see myself like this if it wasn't followed by a gruesome fight to the death. I try not to think about that either. My list of things to ignore is getting longer by the second.

By the time I meet up with Junez, I've had enough time to be nervous about the interviews again. He looks nice. He's cleaned up wearing a black suit with a matching shirt. He looks miserable though, yanking repeatedly at his tie.

"You look nice," he says matter-of-factly, eyeing me strangely. The cut in his eyebrow moves as he does.

"Thanks. You look miserable you know," I tell him, as he scowls at his stylist.

"I hate ties," he grumbles, "I've never had to wear one before and they're irritating."

I raise my eyebrow. "Be happy you don't have to wear these death traps," I remind him showing him the four-inch heels Tilly put me in. "You got off easy."

"You're right," Junez says, eyeing them with horror. "I take it all back."

It's still strange to hear Junez makes jokes. He was so surly back in District 8, and while he still isn't the chattiest person around now, I've had more conversations with him the last few days than I ever had before. It's been the only good part of the Games so far. But every time I think about that, I think about the fact that one, or both of us more likely, will be dead in a few days, and the whole thing just feels depressing again.

Junez complains about the interviews the entire ride down to the city center, and then he takes to complaining about our fellow tributes.

I let him vent the entire time. I'm too nervous about the interviews to add much to the conversation anyway. I like the distraction. I actually feel a bit relaxed until were approached by the District Four tribute. After that things get dicey.

I'd been secretly hoping that Finn had forgotten about the knife at training. I mean it was an accident after all. I didn't mean to almost hit him. But he clearly hasn't forgotten about it. I can barely breathe as he looks as me, threatening to stab me in the arena. Junez has to physically drag me away from him because I no longer feel like I can move.

As if this whole thing wasn't dangerous enough as it is. I already knew I didn't have a chance of making it out that arena alive. But now? I'm on a Careers kill list. I'm a bloodbath for sure. All of the color has drained from my face, and my breathing is hitched. I feel like I'm going to pass out.

"Hey," Junez grabs my shoulder firmly, leading me away from Tilly and his stylist. "Velvet. You alright?"

I nod, trying to make myself look calm. Even if I'm not. I can't show everyone that I'm freaking out. "I'm fine," I croak out, still shaking. "Honest."

Junez snaps his fingers in my face, his eyes locked on mine. "Forget what that douche said, alright? He's all talk. He isn't going to do anything. You're going to be fine."

"He's a career, Junez," I whisper to him firmly, snapping out of my fear for a moment. "He's itching to kill someone. That wasn't an idle threat."

Junez raises an eyebrow. "So? Who cares. You're fast. Outrun him."

"I can't outrun everything," I remind him.

"Try," Junez says firmly. He's so revolved he almost looks angry. "You only lose if you stop trying."

My eyes flicker over to where Finn stands for a moment. He's arguing with his District partner, the tall curly-haired girl. Does he fight with everyone? It seems like it. That's not a good sign.

But he is the youngest Career. If I were to just make it long enough to escape the bloodbath, maybe I wouldn't have to worry about it at all. I just have to stay away from him.

"Who knows," I offer bitterly, not taking my eyes off of the Career pack. "maybe someone else will kill me off first and beat him to it."

Junez cracks a rare smile. "There's the spirit, Velvet."

I feel slightly better than I did a minute ago and I'm suddenly very glad that Junez and I decided to become allies. I can't even imagine how lonely it would feel right now if you didn't get along with your district partner.

I decide minutes before my interview to change my angle. Cecelia and I had mutually decided the day before to be humble. She thought I was too sarcastic for anything else. That was fine with me. Yesterday, I wanted to go unnoticed. But that was before I had a Career after me. Now that I can't go unnoticed, I decide to go for it. I'm going to take Junez' advice. I'm going to try.

So when Cesar calls my name, I beam and flit over to the front of the stage with a wide smile on my face.

"Cesar," I say in false horror, the moment I take my seat. "Are you copying me?" I point to his new freshly died blood-red hair. It's much brighter than mine is, but the audience immediately bursts into laughter and Cesar flashes me a playful smile.

"Red hair is all the rage now, my darling," he says patting my wrist. "You're very on trend. I had to jump on the bandwagon."

I flash the audience a knowing smile and turn back to him. "Well, speaking for the entire redheaded community, I suppose we'll allow it, but only because it looks so good on you."

Cesar howls with laughter again and smiles. "Isn't she a hoot?" he asks the audience and they all roar with laughter again. It takes a few seconds for the laughter to die down and then Cesar turns back to me.

"Now, Velvet. On a more serious note, tell me are you nervous at all for tomorrow?" Cesar asks.

Nerves are all I feel. But I refuse to give Finn the satisfaction of showing it. I ready my face with another smile.

"Nervous?" I joke crossing my legs. "About what could you possibly mean, Cesar?"

The audience laughs again, and Cesar smiles. But I know I won't be able to escape the question. I sit a bit straighter and give Cesar a firm nod. "Of course, I'm nervous. I'd have to be crazy not to be." Just like the Careers.

Cesar looks firm now. "And are you going to try to win?"

I nod, even though I know it's futile. "I have to try, for my mother"

Theres a collective sigh around the room and some of the more dramatic Capitol audience members dab at their eyes.

"Are you too very close?" Cesar asks, using the drama to our advantage.

The nod I give is the first honest thing I feel since I've sat up here. "I'm all she has."

"Well in that case, I wish you and your wonderful hair the best of luck, Velvet," Cesar says and for the first time since I was reaped, I except the well-wishes. I'm going to need them with Finn around.

 **Grant Blunt, 14, District Nine:**

I swear I feel like my tear ducts are going to permanently dry up with all of this fake crying I've been doing lately. It's getting really exhausting and honestly a little boring. But its worth it. I have to keep reminding myself that is the price I have to pay to win the Games. If I want to be a deadly killer, I have to keep up the charade.

I'm an even better actor than I thought because everyone is buying it. Not a single person here thinks I am anything other than a terrified, weak little cry-baby. Which is exactly what I want. Who is going to suspect the bawling kid? No one. They won't know what hit them until I've got a victor crown sitting on my head, and a pile of my victims strewn across the arena. I think my prep team had a few suspicions in the Remake Center so I made sure to cry extra hard after that. Now my mentor, stylists, even my dope of a district partner Grain all think I am useless. They think I am a bloodbath. Little do they know.

It's very freeing to be considered a weak tribute. Everyone ignores you. When you're that weak, no one is going to chase you down. It makes you untouchable. I just have to keep it up a little longer. The moment I enter the arena, I can be myself. I can kill any one I want. It's even better than being back in the district. I just have to make it to the arena.

The hardest part of the act so far was the private sessions. It almost killed me to fail those. I knew exactly what the Gamemakers were thinking, that I was some poor harvester kid from District 9. They had no idea what I could really do.

The interviews will be just as hard. I have to keep up the charade. Sure back home, everyone who watches will know I'm full of it, but what does that matter? The other tributes still won't know and that's all that matters. I am conning them all. They won't know what a mistake they've made by underestimating me until I'm standing over them with a knife. Oh, and how fun that will be! I can't wait.

I have to be sniffly the entire time the others are giving their interviews, and it take a lot of work. Beside me, Grain keeps looking over and me and rolling her eyes. She clearly thinks she's better than me. Little does she know! Grain is nothing more than a dirty harvester girl. Average at best. And yet she is still desperate for attention from any one. Our mentor and stylists pity me. They see me crying and try to comfort me. They practically ignore Grain and it's made her bitter. I realized I'll have to kill her very early on. For whatever reason, she's hostile towards me. Maybe she senses there isn't something right with my act. Whatever it is, it won't stand. I tear up again for good measure while the girl from District 8 jokes around with Cesar Flickerman. She makes him laugh a couple of times and then the boy is up. He is an angry, bitter looking boy who looks like he's never had a proper meal. He did score high in training though. He's one to watch. He's not very charismatic and gives short, unenthused answers until Flickerman seems to give up.

By the time Grain gets on stage, people are starting to get bored. They're dead in the middle of the boring tributes now. They're anxious to move on to the more interesting outlier tributes like the pair from ten or the girl from 12. No one cares much about the boring girl from District 9, and even though Grain tries her best to connect with both Cesar and the audience, she is utterly forgettable.

I will be too, but I'm banking on that. By the time Cesar calls my name, half the audience no longer cares. I give an uninteresting weepy interview and cry when I talk of home, my friends and my loving parents. How easily the lies flow through my mouth! And how quickly my fake tears fall. I have to try actively not to smile the whole time….

 **Gael Yule, 17, District Ten:**

When I see Crickett all done up for the interviews, I understand why Buck seems to be so enamored by her.

She looks nice. Her long dark hair is tied up in a high ponytail that really shows off her face. Her stylists seemed to highlight her natural features rather than covering her face in makeup like many of the other female tributes. She only wears a little pink lipstick and it makes her tan skin glow. I notice that the dress is cut very low and pushes her breasts up quite a bit. It's clear that this was intentional. They want her noticed tonight. I wonder if it was her idea? I hope not. I know she was worried about her low training score but there are other ways for her to prove herself.

Crickett is kind and smart. She's going to be fine, no matter what our mentor thinks. And anyway, I promised my brother I'd look after her. I plan to keep that promise. I probably would have anyway. Crickett's from home. She's a good person and a good ally. I'm going to do everything I can to help her in the arena.

Were dressed in coordinating outfits again. Our stylists really want everyone to know we are a team. Crickett's dress is sleeveless, dark blue and shiny. My suit is made of the same fabric. Bellamy says it makes our eyes pop, even though mine are green, and the color certainly looks nice against our dark hair and tans. Almost everyone in District Ten has the same coal black hair and sun-kissed complexion. Dressed in the same color like this, Crickett and I almost look related.

I like the suit. It's not as flashy or tight ad some of the other tributes and I know I really lucked out. When I caught a glimpse of myself in the shiny elevator doors, I was surprised that I actually looked handsome. I'd never seen myself this cleaned up before. For half a second, I let my brain wander to the idea of Fallon seeing me look like this. Clean and handsome. Surely, he'll be watching? Probably with Buck, but who cares? He'll still see. I wonder if he thinks I look handsome…

I let my mind explore the possibility for a few seconds while I make my way over to Crickett. But when I reach her, it's back to business. Back to the Games.

"You look really pretty," I tell Crickett when I see her, and her face lights up with color.

"Thanks," Crickett says, blushing slightly. "I had to look nice. I have to make an impression tonight, remember? I got a terrible score."

I shake my head. "You can't let that score define you, Crickett. If you do, then you're letting the Capitol control you. You have to just be yourself and do what you need too."

"Well the Capitol seems hell bent on tearing me down," Crickett sighs. "It makes me worried, you know? I don't want to die in the first fifteen minutes of the Games, Gael."

I can see the fear easily written across her small features. This isn't just a case of a bruised ego. Crickett is actually terrified. This whole time I thought she was more confident than this. She's practically shaking now, pacing in her shiny blue shoes and chewing on the ends of her nails. Her stylist keeps throwing her furtive glances, clearly hoping she doesn't ruin his masterpiece.

"You won't" I assure her, trying to express how much this is true. "We're a team, remember? We're going to watch each other's backs. It'll be harder to kill us that way. Not everyone has allies."

Crickett's deep eyes search mine for a minute and then she gives a firm nod. "You're right. As long as we stick together, we'll be okay."

She reaches out and squeezes my arm and I give her a comforting nod. Crickett's small-boned, and even in her tall interview shoes, she just barely makes it past me shoulder.

We head to the City Center together, and when we get there it's crowded with tributes. We both know this is the time to socialize, but neither of us feel very much pressure to because we already have each other as allies.

We're standing quietly when the pair from District Seven approach us. And I'm glad that of all the tributes who could have come over its them. The boy, Elm I think is his name, is only twelve, and his District partner, who introduces herself as Morgan is seventeen. It's clear to anyone in the room that Morgan has chosen to stay close to him. To protect him, similar to the way I have chosen to protect Crickett. I wonder if Morgan has anyone she takes care of at home. I know my loyalty and protectiveness comes from years of taking care of my mother. You can't care for someone like that and not develop those skills.

Both Morgan and Elm are very nice and make quiet conversation with Crickett and I for a few minutes. When the two of them leave I scan the room again and try to learn as much as I can.

There's more tension in the room than usual. The pair from Four have started fighting again. Not that that's much of a surprise. They've spent half the training fighting amongst themselves. The little girl from Six is still hanging around with them too. I have no idea what's going on there, but unless that girl is secretly a ruthless killer, I worry about her. You can't ever trust tributes in the Career pack. I mean, what sane person volunteers for this?

I try not to listen too carefully to anyone's interview other than Crickett's, but some seep through any way. It makes me uncomfortable learning personal information about the other tributes' lives. At the end of this whole thing, twenty-three of us will be dead. Even if I did win, I doubt I would ever feel good again. How could I when I know all of this about them? I try to think of home. Of my mom and dad. Of Buck and Flora. Of Fallon. Could I really go home and be with all of them if everyone on this stage besides Cesar and me were dead? I realize that the chances of this happening are way too low to even think about. I could be dead by ten tomorrow morning. Better not get ahead of myself.

When Crickett takes the stage. The first thing Cesar asks her is about her family back home and I can tell she's struggling not to cry. I remember her telling me she wasn't able to say goodbye to her father. I can't imagine how hard that was for her. She delicately wipes her tears away and then she and Cesar discuss how the good the food in the Capitol is, and the two of them good-naturedly argue about whether District 10 or the Capitol has better steaks.

By the time they're announcing my name I am so exhausted and emotionally drained I have to force myself to remember how important this moment is. I can hardly hear my own thoughts over the screaming and applause that has followed my name and by the time I reach out to shake Cesar's hand it's deafening.

"Gael," Cesar says once it's quieted slightly. "I have to say you have made quite the impact on the women of the Capitol after the tribute parade."

"Have I?" I ask sheepishly, and the screams from the audience answer the question before Cesar can, and I turn a little pink, embarrassed. I can hardly imagine what Tallon and Buck are saying about this at home.

"Aw look at that he's blushing!" Cesar says clapping his hands. "How sweet! Yes Gael. I think everyone in all of Panem could hardly tear their eyes away from you and those muscles. However, did you manage to get those?"

Now I am definitely blushing. I never thought, even for a moment, that I would ever be on national television talking about my body. But I also know how these Games work. If the Capitol likes you, the longer you live. If they want a flirt, they're going to get one.

I flash Cesar and the audience a winning smile. "I'm a cattle rancher back home," I say happily. "I spent all day out there with horses and lifting hay bales."

"Sounds exhausting," Cesar chuckles.

I shake my head. "Trust me, Cesar. It's fun. Who wouldn't want a job where you get to ride horses all day and shirts are optional?"

The audience in the Capitol begins too hoot again and Cesar grins. It's a strange feeling to sit up there and smile while people cheer your name. It's unlike anything I've ever felt before and I can't fight the feeling that it's a little ingenuine. These people don't know me. Don't really know me. Not like my family or Flora does. Or even how Crickett is starting too. It all feels very…fake.

"So you're strong and good with lassos," Cesar says, drawing me back out of my thoughts. "Is that how you managed a nine in training? We were all very impressed."

Impressed? I'm sure the Capitol audience was. But I'm not an idiot. I know that my score has definitely not earned me any friends in the arena. My best chance of surviving is keeping the audience enamored.

I grin. "Come on Cesar, you know I can't reveal my secrets now. I've got to keep a little mystery, don't I?"

Several people in the front row yell appreciatively, and I wink back at them. Cesar is losing himself now, laughing and clapping.

"Now Gael, I would be reminisced if I didn't ask you, because I'm sure everyone here is dying to know if you have a special someone back home in the district? Someone you want to win for?" Cesar asks.

I know he means a romantic interest, and I can't ignore the flash of Fallon that I see in my head. His handsome face and wide smile, but I know the audience is hanging on to my every word now and I have them hooked. I have to sell this. Even if it means pretending to be straight. Pretending to be something I'm not.

"I do actually," I say, and I hear several defeated sighs from the audience, "and her name is mom."

Now the audience is beside themselves, cheering, laughing, screaming. I'm getting it all and Cesar is beaming, his unnaturally white teeth glinting off of the bright stage lights.

"Well I'm sure she will love to hear that!" Cesar jokes and claps me on the back. "Ladies and Gentlemen, Gael Yule!"

The audience screams louder than ever and as I take my seat, I am beaming. I think I may have actually done it. I've made the Capitol fall in love with me.

 **Melody Twig, 15, District Eleven:**

My stylists obviously think I won't go very far in the Games at all. They don't care enough about to me for my input and everything they put me in seems wrong.

Take the dress they picked for tonight. Its short and made of some kind of sparkly gold fabric that itches like crazy. It's flashy too. The kind of dress that you wear if you want to be noticed, which I don't, and I won't be anyway. I find myself desperately wishing they hadn't chopped off all my hair in the remake center because then I would at least have something to his behind. This short, buzzed haircut puts too much of my face on display, and the thick heavy gold earrings they put on me aren't helping. I begged to wear something more demure. Something that would let me blend into the crowd, but the refused me. Instead they coated my eyelids in thick shiny gold paste and made me wear a dark sultry lipstick that doesn't do very much for my complexion. I look like a fool, and absolutely stupid compared to the girl from District 12.

She looks perfect. Pretty, sparkly. She's hard to look away from. Her dress is silver and made of silk. It's sleeveless and drips down her body like a waterfall, leaving nothing to the imagination. All of Panem can see every curve and dip of her toned body, and she seems to know this as she confidently struts by Bale and I.

Her stylists knew what was right for her. They dressed her to stand out because she got an eight in training. I got a 4. Which is on the lower side of average. I should be doing everything I can to blend in and hope that no one kills me in the first five minutes.

Bale seems to be thinking along the same lines. Most of his bruises are healed by now, but he still looks like something awful. The dressed him in a dark blue suit and he seems really irritated for some reason. He's basically ignored me this entire time. Even though I keep trying to make conversation with him. I don't know what's going on, but I decide not to care.

We don't socialize with any of the other tributes and just stand quietly until they lead us to the stage. I hate watching the interviews. I have to sit through twenty other people being pretty, charming and funny knowing that there's no way I can do any of that. By the time the boy from District Ten finishes up, I'm furious. He gave a perfect interview! He was charming and funny. Not to mention the fact that he's so good-looking. Anyone who went after him would be disadvantage, but me? I'm screwed.

It makes me instantly insecure. I have nothing to follow that up with. I'm not particularly nice to look at. I can't make fun, easy-going conversation. I have nothing to offer the Capitol people. My mentor actually sighed when we tried to come up with an angle, and eventually told me to try not to make them hate me. When Cesar calls my name, the only thing I can think, is I'm a goner for sure.

 **Cinder Mooreton, 16, District Twelve:**

I was clear with my stylists yesterday. Very clear. After my eight in training, I needed to be noticed. I told them they had free reign with my interview look so long as they made me look unforgettable.

They did not disappoint.

The dress is slinky and silvery making it so that every time I step under a light it shines on me like I have my own personal spotlight. My hair is sleek too, hanging down my hair in a perfect curtain, straighter than I've ever been able to make it on my own. My eyes are covered in silver and black cream lines that make my eyes look sharp and dazzling. It's the best I've ever looked, and I know it. I look even better than Ember and Pyre, and that's saying something. I hope silently as I head to the elevators, that Hexar is watching. I want him to see me like this.

I want the other tributes to see me too. I need them to understand that I am someone worth watching out for. There were too many outliers with personalities this year. I needed to stand out, and I have. They need to know Cinder Mooreton is someone worthy of being a victor.

Haymitch certainly seems to know it now. He practically ignored me before the training scores came out and now? He's all over me, talking strategy and fighting techniques and trying to come up with the best way to get me sponsors. It's Shiloh who's fallen to the waste side. But what did he expect? With a five in training. It makes me snort. He's got no chance at all. But me? I have just as much chance as everyone else. Especially if I get my hands on a pick-ax. And after that brave move I made by asking the Gamemakers for one, I'm positive there will be a pick-ax in the arena tomorrow. I just have to get to it. After that, it'll be a piece of cake. I'm a fighter. I don't care if I have to kill everyone else in that arena, I'm making it home.

"I see your stylists too your advice," Haymitch says as he surveys me and my ensemble. He looks pleased and I know I made the right decision by going dramatic. I need people to take notice.

"I'm trying to be unforgettable," I remind him, straightening my sheath of perfect hair. It's hard not to feel a little bit of resentment towards him still. He's only my side now because he knows I have the best chance at a District twelve win. I won't forget that he sided with Shiloh first. "You did say go big or go home."

Shiloh stands off to the side in a boring suit and gold tie. We clash, and I can't help but think that that's ironic. Neither of us are united. Whatever fragile connection we share of home back in District twelve is going to shatter the moment the gong rings out. I'm not going to let him drag me down just because he's also from District 12.

Haymitch lets out a low defeated sigh. "You do know if you go this route that this means you're making yourself a target."

"I'm also making myself known," I remind him, feeling the fresh feeling of confidence return. "I need to get sponsors."

Haymitch gives a tiny nod. "Fine, but you better wow them tonight, then. Do something I can work with. Nothing boring, got it?"

"Got it."

Shiloh and I say nothing to each other while we head down to the City Circle and I try to focus myself one what I'm about to do. I thought quite a bit about my angle, but it didn't matter much what my escort or Haymitch tried to suggest. There was only one angle that felt right to me; confident.

Haymitch tried to talk me out of it. All of the Careers go with that, he told me, scowling at my lack of originality. It's nothing new or fresh. But that's where he's wrong. It is new. People except the Careers to be confident. They're Careers. They train years for this. They're strong, well fed volunteers. They have every reason to be confident. But a girl from District Twelve? No one would expect her to be confident. If I'm confident, then the audience will know I've got the skills to back it up. And I do.

When Cesar calls my name, I flit to the stage confidently, very aware of the way my dress looks under the lights and the hordes of people screaming my name.

For the first time, people will expect things from District Twelve.

 **Marcus Sparks, 13, District Three:**

My interview was nothing special. But it didn't need to be. I was mostly here to watch. My skill is my brain. My smarts. Anyone in the Capitol will be able to see that the moment the Games begin. There is no point in trying to convince them of it now. They will see for themselves tomorrow.

I already know how the Games work inside and out. I know who the winner will be, and unless these Games turn out to be something entirely knew, I doubt it will change. Instead I focus on watching my fellow tributes. By now, I know them all well. I have their scores to tend with and the interviews show off a bit of their personality.

The tributes from Districts 1 and 2 are perfect Careers. They're strong and capable. Any of them have a chance at winning. District 4 is a shit show. I suspect both of their tributes will die early on. They're both so busy fighting with each other they probably won't notice when one of the Careers from 1 or 2 take them out. Most of the other tributes this year are so boring I can already tell which ones will be dead by the time the gong rings out.

Some of them try, and their interviews make them slightly more interesting. The Capitol seems to like the girl from seven but she's completely useless, so I don't worry too much about her. The girl from ten is pretty charming for a girl who scored a three, which makes me wonder if there is something going on there. A couple of people use humor and it makes them much more likeable, like the pair from six or the girl from eight, but I still don't think it's enough to make any kind of lasting impact. Not with the powerhouse outliers like the girl from twelve or the boy from ten. Those two are sponsor stealers if I've ever seen them. Between them and the Careers this year? Everyone will have to beg for so much as a slice of dried beef. All the interviews have taught me is that this year they're a quite a few people to look out for. Tomorrow is going to be very interesting indeed….


	25. Before and Of

**24 Before the Games:**

 _The Night Before:_

Niko Dyne, 18, District Five:

My interview was not the most important part of tonight. I know that.

I know enough about myself to know that nothing I could have possibly said during my interview would help me. I'm a boring tribute. I was boring back home too.

It doesn't matter how cool or interesting I think I am, to the Capitol I'm a nameless faceless kid from District five. The oldest tribute that isn't a Career. This might have worked to my advantage if I was big and muscular like that guy from District Ten, but because I'm short and plain, I don't have to worry about it. I can just be ignored.

I learned a lot more by just watching anyway. Watching and listening. That's what I'm good at after all. I'm a natural born eavesdropper. And what I hear tonight, will keep me alive in the arena tomorrow. So, I listen.

The funny thing about the interviews is that you learn a lot more by watching the tributes that aren't speaking on the stage talking to Cesar, than the ones that are.

Take the girl from One for instance. During her interview she was the perfect image of what a Career should be; focused, determined, confident. But the moment she sat back down, and her brother took the stage you could see a definite shift. She was less calm. Her eyes narrowed in frustration and her leg began to bounce nervously. There was definitely something going on with her regarding her brother, and I want to know what it is.

I always thought that Maia was the leader of those two. But could it be Brandi?

That would be weird. I thought he was too reckless to lead her around, but I'm starting to think he's the one who calls the shots. Someone like her can't like that very much. I make a mental note to keep my eyes on the twins. Those two are a land mine waiting to blow, and when they do I want to be _very_ far away.

I can hardly keep my eyes from either of them the entire we're up on the stage. Every time I think I have that power dynamic figured out, something else happens and I'm stooped.

I see other things too, though. The way that boy from Lincoln looks at his district partner Tyler for instance. He seemed like a friendly guy during training, but there's some deep resentment in his eyes when he looks at her. I wonder if it's because she's with the Careers now. That could be it. Maybe it's jealousy? Weird. I wouldn't have pegged him for that kind. He seemed like a regular, okay guy. Kind of like me. I thought he might be a good ally, but now I'm not so sure. I better keep my distance. I do better on my own anyway. I'm not much of a talker.

Allies are the other thing I see so much clearer than everyone else. Outside of the Careers, people very rarely ally with anyone other than district partners. Probably because they're so familiar. They're from home. It isn't a risk, because they almost _never_ turn on you. I see this very clearly in the pairs from Seven, Eight and Ten. They cling to their district partners, making me think that bonds must have been formed early on. The girl from ten doesn't move an inch unless her district partner does too, and I overheard both Seven and Eight talking about being allied at training. So, unless they're all lying, they're sticking together.

What's more obvious is the groups that don't want to stick together. Anyone with eyes can see the pair from Four are at each other's throats. I don't even have to sneak around to hear those fights. They're at full volume. They might be trying to hide it from Capitol audiences, but when it's just us tributes, they're don't even try. The pair from Three seem to dislike each other too, but I doubt any one notices. They're both young and weak, the kind of tributes people ignore. I only know because when I was tying my shoe in training, I overheard the boy tell the girl that she was too stupid to make it past the bloodbath. The tone he used made me shudder, and I was suddenly very grateful that Lydia is at least nice to me.

Most of the tributes are like that. Not rude to their district's partners but not close to them either. It makes me feel a little better about not being close to Lydia. We just don't have much in common, but maybe that's good. It won't be as bad for us when one of us dies.

The moments the interviews are over, I meet back up with Lydia in the center. She seems really upset about something. She keeps tearing up, wiping at her eyes and sniffling. I want to be a good district partner and ask her what's wrong, but the Career pack is forming again, and I don't want to miss that. Who knows what kind of valuable information they're going to be spreading? It's the night before the Games after all. This is where they'll hammer out their plans.

So, I abandon Lydia with her stylist and slowly make my way past the groups of exiting tributes. I can always apologize to her later. I won't have an opportunity like _this_ again. Next time I see these people, they'll be armed. Might as well use the only weapon I have in my arsenal now. Because really, what will eavesdropping do against a bow and arrow or a knife?

I quietly push through the throngs of tributes trying not to be seen. The girl from Six looks like she wants to head to the Careers but is being dragged back to the elevator by her mentor and stylists. Weird. I wonder what _that's_ about. I thought she was one of them now. Why wouldn't her mentor _encourage_ that alliance? Wish I knew.

The Career Pack is standing in one of the far corners giving them a good vantage point on everyone else and it takes me a minute to find a place that will allow me to be inconspicuous and still overhear what they're saying. For the first time in my life I'm glad I was too short to be a Peacekeeper because I'm able to stand behind a thick, plant without my head poking out. I'm a good five feet away from the pack and they still can't see me. They're deep in conversation anyway, not paying attention to little old, boring me. Good, I think. Talk away. And then I listen.

"…you're being an idiot, Brandi," Maia snaps quietly, her eyes trained on the boy from District One. From the sound of her tone, a fight is beginning to brew. "I know you think that no one can _dare_ charm people better than you, but I saw the looks on those people's faces. They loved that guy. Ten is a favorite."

"She has a point," Finn adds quietly, his eyes glued to the tall, curvy blonde across from him like she's something to eat. "Even if I think it's ridiculous. Why would anyone sponsor an outlier when they could support me?"

Hmm. They're talking about Gael. The tribute from Ten. Maia sounds worried, her beautiful face was knotted up as she spoke. Not that I blame her. Gael did manage to charm the audience. He has a certain quality about him that makes it hard to stop listening to him.

Brandi makes a strange hissing sound in the back of his throat to express his incredulity and shakes his head. " _Please._ You really think that the Capitol audience is going to fall over themselves to sponsor some big, burly idiot from _Ten?_ No way. They like a certain elegance with their tributes. Not some rancher who doesn't know how to flirt properly."

"Like that actually matters, Brandi," Aurelia says quickly, sounding annoyed. She seems to be at the end of her patience and reaches up to untwist her hair from the elegant style, letting it fly loose down her back. She kicks off her heels too, abandoning them on the floor beside her. Brandi stares at her while she does it, but she doesn't seem to notice.

Lykon nods his head in agreement. "Exactly. No one cares about that stuff in the arena." He is looking at Brandi like he could crush him between his fists easily. And who knows? He probably could. He's big enough.

"And that is why your interview sucked," Brandi says evenly, his handsome face turned into a strange frown. "You don't understand how these Games work, Two. You can't just be good in the arena. It _bores_ them." He jabs a finger back towards the direction of the Capitol audience, with a haughty look on his face. "They want someone they can fall in love with. Someone who thrills them. The Games are nothing more than a show, and they're looking for their star."

It's an astute observation and Brandi seems to know it. He smirks at the other Careers.

"But Brandi, they _did_ fall in love with Gael," Sedna presses, speaking for the first time. "Look at it from their perspective. He's an outlier, but he's handsome, and he's skilled. He's someone to root for- "

"- He isn't _that_ skilled," Brandi snaps, almost interrupting her. "I saw him in training. He barely touched the weapons." There's something dark in his blue eyes now as he speaks. Something that makes me shiver.

"He was skilled enough to get the same training score as you," Maia reminds him, haughtily. At first, her tone sounded teasing but the smirk on her face suggests she liked saying it. Reminding him that he scored lower than her.

Brandi's eyes darken again as he looks at her and his right-hand twitches as it moves upward. For a minute, I'm convinced he's going to strike her, but he simply brushes a chunk of her blonde hair over her shoulder and says "Careful, dear Sister. We wouldn't want our allies thinking you're a bitch, now would we?"

From the furious look on Maia's face, it's pretty clear she doesn't care what any of the other Careers think about her, but to her credit, she forces a smile, and keeps it until Brandi turns his head back in Sedna's direction. I can tell she's planning something, I just wish I knew what it was.

"Brandi," Sedna pleads, "Can you not be rude to her?" The tall girl's eyes flit to Maia almost immediately as she says this and it's clear that for whatever reason, Sedna is trying to get back in the blonde beauty's good graces. For half a second, it seems to work. Maia looks more relaxed and Sedna beams. Only Brandi looks mildly annoyed as he blinks from one Career girl to the other.

"Friends again, are we?" Brandi teases in a strained voice, looking more amused than anyone else. "I thought you had better taste, Sed."

"If we don't move on to Bloodbath strategy, I swear to Panem I'm going to stab you all myself," Lykon says abruptly, furrowing his brows. It's clear he has reached his wit's end and it seems to focus the other members of the Career Pack. Something that Aurelia in particular seems grateful for.

"I mean what strategy do we really need?" Sedna asks foolishly. "Don't we just go for it?"

Even as a boring tribute, I know how ridiculous what she just said was. Didn't she train at the academy? I thought they better prepared their Careers for this sort of thing, maybe it's all weapon training there. Who knows.

To her right, everyone except Aurelia and Lykon snicker quietly. Maia and Finn in particular exchange a knowing smile.

"That's how Careers end up killed in the bloodbath, Dyan," Aurelia says quickly. She doesn't say it as insult. It's much more matter-of-fact, but it still turns Sedna's cheeks pink. "We have to have at least a loose plan."

Brandi nods. "She's right. We don't know what kind of Arena we'll be thrown into. Or who we'll end up next too. We need a plan."

"Then how can we plan?" his twin demands, "don't we have to be adaptable and then meet up as quickly as we can?"

Aurelia looks bored now. "That _is_ a plan."

"Tell you what. Here's the plan," Lykon says quickly, before any of them can bicker anymore. "Wherever you end up in the rotation, whatever the arena is like, the moment that gong rings out, you make it to the Cornucopia fast as you can. Gather as many weapons as you can and fan out. Kill anyone you see that isn't one of us and get the others weapons."

There's a moment of silence as everyone weighs it over in their heads and then they all began to nod carefully.

"We need to watch each other's backs too," Aurelia adds carefully, looking around at the rest of them. "Whether you like it or not, the more people we have, the stronger we are."

There's a collective grumble of agreement, but I notice Finn eye Sedna with fury out of the corner of his eye. Of course, he doesn't like that idea. He'd probably rather stab her himself than watch her back. But I don't see how he can without causing a bigger split down the middle of this pack.

"We can't let any other tributes get weapons," Maia reminds them. "The last thing we want is to arm our prey."

The way she says that send shivers down my spine. _Prey?_ She's not just enduring tomorrow. She's looking forward to it. There's a murderous gleam in that bombshell's eyes.

"Not that any of them are likely too," Finn chuckles confidently, running his hands through his thick curly hair. He's pretty arrogant for the youngest one there, and from the look on the other Careers faces, they sense this too.

"And most importantly," Brandi says ominously. "We kill anyone with a score above Seven, got it?"

They all agree and then begin to dissipate. Finn and Sedna leave first, stomping away from one another at different paces, and taking different elevators. They must really hate one another.

Brandi and Maia leave together, whispering in quick fervent voices that I can no longer hear. Weird. They seemed at each other's throats a second ago. Is that a Twin/sibling thing? That they make up easily after they bicker? Or is there something else going on? Could they be pretending to have a contentious relationship for the others benefit? I have no clue, but I want to find out.

I am stuck behind the plant until Aurelia and Lykon decide to move. The two of them wait for the others to disappear before they turn to one another.

"What a shit show," Aurelia says, shaking her head in the direction of where the others disappeared. "Are they _all_ crazy?"

"Seems like it," Lykon answers, his thick brows furrowed. "Brandi is a piece of work, huh?"

"So is his sister," Aurelia sighs, staring off where the girl from One was standing only seconds ago. "Too bad they're actually pretty good with the weapons." She sighs again. "and Finn's no better, he's great with that trident but he's a cocky ass. I don't trust _any_ of us those three."

"What about Sedna?" Lykon presses her, "What do you think?"

"That she's meek," Aurelia answers without skipping a beat. She's clearly thought about this a lot. "She's good with her weapons though. I don't distrust her, but I'm not exactly thrilled with buddying up with her either."

She frowns. "What do you think is up with that girl from Six?" she asks Lykon. "Do we deal with that or let it play out on its own?"

Lykon snorts. "That's Brandi's pet. He can deal with it." He shakes his head, as if that idea makes him happy, then his face goes back to its usual stony grimace. "The rest of them are distracted. They've forgotten what this is about. The _killing._ "

Aurelia is quiet for a second, pursing her lips as she thinks. "They're going to get us all killed if they keep acting like that. We're supposed to be the strongest tributes in there."

"You and I are," Lykon reminds her. He tilts his massive chin in her direction, with a knowing look.

Aurelia raises an eyebrow at him, looking very shocked. "Are you suggesting we form our _own_ alliance?" she asks.

Lykon's face doesn't change as he looks at her. "All I'm saying, is that it wouldn't hurt to have a backup plan. I'm not getting my head bashed in with a rock because we've got a Career pack full of crazies. The second those four start to spin out of control, I'm leaving. You're welcome to join. After that we don't worry until top three."

Aurelia is silent for a moment, letting his words hang in the air. For a second, I think she might refuse him, but then she nods carefully and says "Ok."

"But when the time comes," Lykon says carefully. " _I'm_ killing Brandi." There's a firmness in his voice that makes me think this point is non-negotiable.

A crooked smirk forms on the corner of Aurelia's mouth and I think it might be the first smile I've ever seen from her.

"I make no promises," she jokes quietly. "He's _really_ irritating."

The two of them laugh in unison and the sounds seems disturbing from the least emotional tributes I've seen so far.

They exchange a quick look and then make their way back to the elevators, leaving me behind the plant with my thoughts. I can't move for a second, letting the gravity of what I've just heard settle over me.

Brandi and Maia. Aurelia and Lykon. There are sub-packs among the Careers. And resentment too. I have no idea what is going to happen with this pack when the gong rings out. And for the first time, I'm really glad that I'm not a Career.

I decide instead to think about what I've learned so far. The Careers have a plan. They're going to be ready to kill seconds after the Games begin. That leaves me with one clear plan for myself. If I want to live past the bloodbath, I have to put as much distance as I can between me and them. No time to stop for supplies. No waiting. Not a single minute of hesitation. I can't afford to waste any time.

Grain Garner, 16, District Nine:

Somehow, Grant and I end up in an elevator alone.

He's still sniffling and hiccupping from all the tears he shed on stage and for some reason the sound of it makes me want to ditch him here and walk up nine flights of stairs by myself. I don't know why he annoys me so much, but sometimes I can barely stand being around him.

Maybe it's the crying. I don't _get_ it. Sure, you're upset, but we're all upset. No one _wants_ to end up in the Games, but there's nothing you can do about it now. Crying makes you look weak and pathetic. It instantly makes you a target. Someone whose easy to discredit and kill. Why would anyone want to give themselves a worse chance in the arena? It makes no sense to me. I'm desperate for people to even look my way here, and Grant spends all his time making sure no one ever does.

He's watching me now. I'm staring straight forward at the elevator doors trying to avoid him, but I can still his lingering gaze out of the corner of my eye. He's crying a bit harder now but manages to stop for a second.

"I'm… really… sorry, you… know," he hiccups quietly, "…that… I'm…such a terrible… District …partner."

He's looking at me all teary-eyed now and looks years younger than fourteen. He wipes at his face with the sleeve of his jacket.

"I know I've been useless," he continues quietly, still pink-faced, "and that our mentor's been busy with me, and I'm sorry. I've just been so scared, and I miss home so much. I just wish this whole thing could be over." He looks like he's on the verge of tears again and his eyes are wide and glassy. It's sad really, and for the first time I start to feel a little bad for how I've been treating him.

It's not _his_ fault that I'm handling being reaped so well. I'm a realist, always have been. So far, I've been thinking about the whole Games from a strategic point of view. I never stopped to consider what it might be like for someone who's young and weak and knows it. Someone whose scared. Someone who knows they're never going home again. Never going to see the people they love. Someone who knows they're going to die. Maybe if I thought like that, I'd spend all my time crying too.

He's barely older than my brother Wheat after all. I try to think of what I was like two years ago. Maybe I would have been weepy too. A wave of guilt washes over me as I place my hand carefully on Grant's shoulder.

"You don't have to worry about it," I tell him softly, feeling _very_ guilty. "It's not your fault. This whole thing is scary."

"Are you scared too?" Grant asks, and suddenly his face is very still, as if he's eagerly awaiting the answer. It's a little strange but I decide to ignore it. I've been cruel enough to him thus far.

I nod. "Of course."

Grant gives a tiny meek nod and wipes at his eyes again. "Thanks Grain," he says quietly as the elevator opens into our apartment.

I feel good for a moment. Sure, Grant will probably be dead two seconds after the gong rings out, but at least now I don't have to hate him. He can go easily, knowing I understand. I get it. It feels nice not to despise my District Partner anymore.

I feel good about my decision not to hate Grant. It's petty. And I don't want to be petty going into the Games. I made the right choice.

Just before we leave the elevator together, Grant flashes me a smile that inexplicably sends a shiver down my spine.

Futura Bug, 14, District Three:

Dinner makes me wish the Games would just come faster. It's _that_ bad.

I don't know if it's the stress of tomorrow, or the fact that Beetee and Wiress seem to know that neither Marcus or I can win, but something is making them both quiet.

Only Marcus seems to be in a great mood. Probably because his interview went well. After he scored a three in training, I sort of thought he and I were in the same boat. Sure, I knew he was really smart. Everyone in the district knows that, but smarts don't always do much in the arena. I sort of thought we could be united by our low scores. That neither of us were much of a threat to the others and could be allies, but Marcus had a different plan.

I had no idea he knew so much about the Games. That had been a total shock. When he got every one of Cesar's trivia questions right I almost gasped on national television. It was really impressive. Beetee definitely thought so. He managed to do the thing that low-scoring tributes never do, be memorable. It was a really great interview, and he knows it. It put him in a really great mood for the meal.

The kitchen crew made sure there was a huge spread of yummy foods at dinner that accommodated his allergies, and he seems to like that. He happily serves himself two portions of everything and chats to anyone who will listen. Not me, of course. He _never_ talks to me. I don't really know why. I _think_ he thinks I'm stupid. Which to him, and his big obnoxious brain is probably the worst thing in the world. To me, cruelty is the worst trait someone can have. But to Marcus, it's stupidity.

It reminds me of dinners back home after my grandpa died. The ones where I would sit silently picking at my food while Mom and Dad praised Ryam and all of his accomplishments. Ryam and Marcus would probably get along great. Both of them are genius' and they both dislike me.

"…and I really think that the arena is going to be cold this year," Marcus tells Beetee, inhaling another mouthful of soup. "I mean they wouldn't want to give the District Four tributes an unfair advantage, would they? So why would they choose a tropical arena? They wouldn't."

"…Hmm? Yes, I suppose so," Beetee says, although he doesn't seem to be listening anymore. He's staring off at the TV that's playing reruns of the interviews. The pretty blonde girl from District Seven is on the screen.

I liked her. She's the one who sticks with her District partner, even though he's only twelve. That's loyalty right there. I'm older than Marcus and he still has no interest in being polite to me, let alone being my _ally._

I'm just as alone here in the throng of the Games as I was back in District Three. It's like I'm destined to live my whole life alone and unwanted.

Once again, I think of my grandpa. If he were here, I'd feel better. He would give me a reason to try. To have someone to go home for.

I stare into my bowl of delicious broth and sigh. No one here cares for me. Just like back in the District.

I won't be missed when I die in the arena.

Bale Tempin, 13, District Eleven

The food is the only good part of this whole trip. Probably the only good part of the whole Capitol if I'm being honest. The only time I don't hate these ridiculous, naïve people is when I'm chowing down on a plate full of Capitol food. It's hard to be angry when you're tasting the most delicious thing that's ever existed.

Tonight, the food is especially good. Probably because the kitchen staff knows that most of us will be dead tomorrow. They wanted to go all out and really give us tributes a great final meal.

There're five courses; a warm oaky soup filled with green peas and carrots, a risotto full of wild mushrooms and spices, some gamey bird filled with a delectable apricot sauce that actually makes me moan with every bite, a thick, creamy butterscotch pudding that Melody seems to enjoy, and a cake that actually gets lit _on fire_.

I eat as much of it as I can. Mostly because it's too good not too, and partly because it wouldn't hurt to try and be as full as I can for tomorrow. Who knows what kind of arena we'll be thrown into? What if there's no food in there whatsoever. It would be just like the Capitol to starve us out. Isn't that what they do in the Districts anyway?

I try not to think about home as I savor every bite. Of the fact that somewhere my little sisters are alone and probably hungry. I can only hope that someone is helping to take care of them, making sure they're fed. The alternative is too horrible.

The more I think about, the more the icing from the cake starts to taste foul in my mouth. I am sitting here in a plush chair eating _cake_ when my baby sisters could be starving back in District Eleven. The thought makes me grip the knife in my hand tighter.

This whole thing is the Capitol's fault. My starving siblings, my beating, my reaping. _All_ of it. And tomorrow, when I'm in the arena facing twenty-three other people who want to kill me, I'm going to make them pay for it.

Junez Croster, 16, District Eight:

I don't know how she did it, but Velvet turned on the charm for her interview.

One minute, she was a full-on basket case after what that dickhead Finn threatened her with and then the moment she sat in that chair beside Cesar she was flirty, sultry and funny. She had Cesar eating out of the palm of her hand.

It was strange too watch. That was not the girl I spent the last couple of days around. Maybe it's just because of how she looks. In a fancy dress, face highlighted with makeup that ages her, she looks completely different. Sure, Velvet's always been pretty, but not like _that._ That hair-flipping, self-assured girl that Panem saw. The kind of girl who would have been rude to me back to District Eight.

And her jokes, what the hell was that? She's cracked plenty of them in the last couple of days, but they were always sarcastic or dark. Usually at the Capitols' expense. But on stage? She was the girl-next-door. _Bubbly_. Velvet's cool, nice too, to people like me and Cecelia, and the stylists. But Capitol people? She hates most of them. But you wouldn't know it from her interview. I barely recognized her up there.

But I know why she did it. She's scared. Of Finn. Of dying. And she thinks that if she's warm and charismatic, she'll live longer. Not that I can blame her. That Career douche-bag seems hell bent on targeting her for the worlds dumbest reason. And she at least has a decent chance at making people like her. I like her, and I hate _everyone._ So, I try not to hold her charade against her as we get on the elevator together. She's the only real person who's ever given me a chance, who's gotten to know me.

She's really quiet now. Not like usual. And the second the doors close she kicks off her shoes and plops down on the floor of the elevator, cross-legged and surrounded by the massive fabric of her dress.

"Are you having a mental breakdown?" I ask her, looking down at her crumpled figure. "Because I think I'm too tired and hungry to help."

"So much for being an ally, huh?" Velvet chuckles darkly, the ghost of a smile on her face. "If you're not much help when you're tired or hungry, we're _definitely_ going to die in that arena tomorrow."

I grin at the return of the morbid humor, glad that whatever perky redhead was on stage with Cesar is now long gone.

"I'm handy with the weapons though," I remind her. "You should take surly and skilled over happy and weak."

"You're not always surly," Velvet says evenly, stretching her arms out in front of her. "not like that guy from Two." She shudders, and her entire tiny body moves. "I bet he's not much fun to talk to during a long day in the arena."

The guy from Two is a beast. The kind of guy who you know is a lethal killer just from looking at him. Silent too.

"Bet his idea of fun _is_ _being_ in the arena," I point out, knowing that Career type well. He's the violent kind. Not like the guy from One who likes the attention (and reminds me of my brother) The guy from Two wouldn't think twice about crushing your skull between his hands. It's hard to even picture a scenario where either Velvet or I are in the vicinity of him and not dead.

"Cheery," Velvet says sarcastically and sighs. She stares forward at the shiny elevator doors. "I just wish we were back home." She says it resoundly, and I can hear the pain in her voice.

It's hard for me to agree with her. I wish I wasn't _here._ Fighting for my life against a bunch of sick bastards who want to watch me bleed. But there's not much for me back in Eight.

I don't have a great job or friends. My brother is an asshole. And most of the district thinks I'm no good trouble. It's not as if there's some wonderful life waiting for me back there. My life in District Eight was hell. The only thing I miss is my sister Loraine. I wish I could see her again.

But the sad, shitty part of this whole thing is that the only way District Eight would be tolerable for me is if I came back a Victor. Rich and able to take care of Loraine without any help or interference from Rasta.

I don't get long to think about it. The elevator doors open, and Cecelia and the stylists are there, eagerly awaiting us for dinner. The smell of the food is so good it almost knocks me over. At least the food here doesn't suck. It's nice not to have to worry about starving for once.

Velvet is beside me being good-naturedly chastised by her stylist Tilly for taking off her shoes, and then the two of them flit off to the dinner table with Cecelia talking like old friends. I really don't understand how she stands that girl. She's from the Capitol, even if she is nice. _My_ stylist tells me that he overheard people in the audience were impressed by my training score and offers me his support. I scowl at him and move on. I have no interest in befriending Capitol people. They're the reason I'm here in the first place.

The dinner is a nervous one. I try to eat as much as I can so I'm full and focused for tomorrow. It's a good thing the food is so good. It There's a thinly sliced spicy beef that actually melts in my mouth, so I eat about half the roast by myself while Cecelia watches and giggles.

"Good huh?" she asks, serving herself a slice.

I nod with a mouth full of the stuff. "Really good."

"The baby likes it too," Cecelia says as she takes a bite. "I always crave it when I'm back home." Her hand is resting on her stomach as she eats, and I try not to look too uncomfortable. Pregnant woman scare me. I'm always afraid I'll make them cry or something. Most people dislike me anyway, but she's a good mentor, I really should try harder. I give her a small smile, but from the look on her face I know it's not comforting to her.

Cecelia tries to returns it, as she eats. "I know this whole thing is hard for you, Junez, and I really admire how you haven't let it change you. That's not an easy thing to do. Especially in your position."

I raised my cut eyebrow apprehensively. "You _like_ the way I act?" I find it hard to believe that anyone likes my surly unpleasantness. Especially the wide-cheeked, happy mentor that sits in front of me.

"I _like_ that it's authentic. You haven't let any of this process sway you. You're you through and through," Cecelia says. "I wish I had been like that when I was reaped."

"That's not how you win the Games, though," I mutter darkly, "People have to like you."

Cecelia sighs, and reaches out to touch my arm. "That's not necessarily true." But we both now that's a lie. The Capitol has to like their victor, or at least respect them. My eyes drift over to the other side of the table where the stylists are fawning over Velvet and her story about how she made her reaping dress.

"I'm going to help you in any way I can," Cecelia tells me firmly, as I shove another helping of food angrily into my mouth.

"Why? Don't you like Velvet better?" I ask. I don't want to be rude. But were heading to that Arena tomorrow. We don't have time to beat around the bush and be polite. I'd rather a mentor whose straight up with me.

Cecelia blushes. "It doesn't matter. It's my job to help you both. And I will."

She spends the next half hour of dinner dolling out last minute pieces of advice to us. Find water and food. Don't trust Careers, etc. It's stuff I already know from watching the Games and or things I probably would have figured out anyway but still I let her talk. She wants to help.

I eat as much as I can, including two slices of a thickly frosted colorful cake. When dinner ends, Velvet and I part ways, wishing each other good luck, and then I head to my room.

I take a long time in the shower, letting the hot water run over my back and then I lay down on my bed and think about my sister and District Eight. If I won the Games, the two of us really could have a better life there. We would have money and a mansion, and the respect of the people in the district. They always come around to the Victor eventually. It's hard to hate them when parcels are being dropped every month. You can't help but be proud of them. Being crowned victor could finally make the people of District Eight see me as something other than a troubled, poor, thief. Maybe I could really win. It would change everything for me.

I fall asleep and dream about my life as a victor, laughing as Rasta watches me from behind my new thick iron gate.

Brandi Boyle, 18, District One:

Dinner is a fun, joyous affair.

That's the great thing about being a volunteer and a Career. Going into the Games is something to celebrate, not dread. So why not fully enjoy it? The night before should be about indulgence, not fear. Especially not when you're _me._

Maia, Golden, our escort, the stylists, and I all sit down to a delectable dinner and drink sparkling wine as we talk about our interviews and our excitement for the Games to begin. It's loud and fun, and surely a much happier environment than the other floors of the tribute center.

We laugh and eat, as we discuss the high points of our interviews and torment the tributes who failed so miserably.

Maia is being a touch over-confident about how well she did, and it makes me smile. Just like usual, she is _so_ in denial. She thinks that because she dressed right tonight, that that alone was enough to make the Capitol choose her? If that's what she believes, she's forgotten one major piece of the puzzle; _Me._

I am exactly like Maia, only so much better. We look and think similarly, but that's where the comparisons stop. I am the skilled one. I am the Victor. Maia is too obsessed with being perfect to actually be perfect. She's a stickler for the rules. She never takes any chances or risks. She never lets herself feel anything. She's guarded, and it won't serve her well in the arena. You can't plan for the arena. You have to roll with the punches and go with your gut. The Hunger Games is nothing more than a show. One that values flashiness and showmanship. The only thing worse than being weak in the arena, is being boring. And boring is one thing I am not.

Why else did she think that father always preferred me? It's because our father wants a victor. And he knows that the Victor will be me. Maia is a good second choice, but that's all she'll ever be; second. That thought alone, makes me take another confident sip of wine.

Golden seems to be enjoying the meal quite a bit too. She took the time to get to know Maia better after the score reveals but now, she has shifted to giving us both attention. I don't know if it's out of politeness or a tactic, but whatever the reason I'll have to make her see reason. I need to be the one she supports in there. The focus of her attention. And I know exactly how I'll do it. The same way I killed my interview, by making her love me.

It's not exactly difficult for me. I can charm any woman, anywhere. I spent my entire life back in District One doing it. With a face and silver tongue like mine, it's easy. I planned on doing it any way, after I won. What better woman would there be to woo than Golden Hendricks? She's beautiful, deadly and a Victor. We're a match made in heaven.

I specifically wait until the end of the evening, when all of the goodbyes and last pieces of luck are shared.

Maia is oddly calm tonight, and I don't know why. Normally, she's so full of herself she never shuts up. But tonight, she's cool as a cucumber, and it's worrisome. When she turns to me to say good night she actually smiles.

"I'll see you tomorrow then, Brandi," she whispers evenly, holding her tiny hands at her sides. Her face is an even mask, devoid of any emotion.

"See you when the gong rings out, sister," I tell her, unable to hide the smallest smirk. This is the last time she will ever be able to look at me and not feel fear. Not wonder when one of us will turn on the other. She seems to sense it too and gives me one long look before disappearing around the corner.

Now that she's gone and out of my way, I set out for Golden. I feel a quick sense of pride at the thought of what I am about to do. I really am lucky that I'm so good-looking. I won't have to try nearly as hard.

I find her in the sitting room, curled up in one of the big armchairs, a glass of sparkling wine balanced in her tiny, manicured hand. She looks relaxed, the way she can afford to be as a Victor and not a tribute. Tomorrow means nothing to her. One way or another, she already knows she has the victor in her midst's. She can rest easy.

She blinks when she sees me, the corner of her full attractive mouth pulling upwards. She looks ridiculously gorgeous tonight in a sheer gold-colored dress that matches her long hair, and from the confident way she's sitting, she knows it.

"Aren't you supposed to be getting some sleep?" she purrs, balancing her glass on the table as she elegantly rises from the armchair. It's a clear attempt to show off her ample breasts and long legs, but I don't mind. "You have a big day tomorrow, Brandi."

I know from the way she's looking at me and the deep, careful tone of her voice, that I wasn't wrong when we met. She wants me too. Technically speaking, relationships between a mentor and a victor aren't against the rules of the Games, but they are a bit taboo. It only makes it more fun for me.

I cross the room and stop right in front of her. Carefully, I reach down for her glass of wine and bring it slowly to my lips. I take a long, dramatic sip, very aware of how the red liquid looks so much like blood. Golden's eyes watch me like a hawk the entire time. Her eyes are practically glued to my mouth. Narrowed, even. She focused on me like I am her prey.

"The big day will be when I'm Victor," I tell her smoothly, my voice dripping with confidence. "Until then it's just having a bit of fun, isn't it?"

Golden smirks and tosses some of her iconic hair behind her back. "What makes you so sure you're going to win?"

She's flirting. That much is clear. Anyone who knows me knows why I am so confident. There's not a doubt in my mind that I'm going to win this thing, and Golden knows it too. That's why she's teasing me.

"Weren't you sure?' I whisper to her, wiggling my eyebrows. "before your Games. You must have known."

Golden's eyes flash at the memory of her time in the arena, and the left corner of her lips pull up slowly. "Of course, I knew. The victor _always_ knows."

"Then I have nothing to be worried about, do I?" I ask her seductively. "Especially not with such a prepared and helpful mentor."

Golden relinquishes and lets out a sultry little sigh. "I suppose I have nothing to worry about then," she whispers, her thick eyelashes fanning out as she slowly looks me up and down. "The victor of the 59th Hunger Games is definitely on the floor."

That's when I know I have her.

"The victor of the 59th Hunger Games is standing in front of you Dollface," I whisper, teasing her the way she did me.

Golden smiles, and before she can say anything else, I'm leaning towards her. For a few delicious seconds, she doesn't move and then before we know it, we're kissing. As our mouths crash together, and I can feel her urgency as she kisses me back. She wanted this just as much as me. Besides the face that I'm good-looking, it's clear what her motivation is. I am going to be a victor. She wants to curry favor with me now before I'm crowned. Before I can have any woman, I want. She may be Golden Hendricks, a beautiful and vicious victor, but I'm Brandi Boyle, soon to be the most beloved victor of all time. And she knows it.

I don't let this bother me as I knot my hands in her trademark hair and kiss her passionately. She's my mentor. If she loves me, she'll keep me alive. So, I move my hands to her waist and slowly lead her back to my room.

I crack a smile as I she trots behind me excitedly, and all I can think is that once again, I have made the person who supposed to look after _both_ Maia and I, like me better.

 _Good luck, Sister_ I think with a quiet laugh. _Let the Hunger Games begin._

Sedna Dyan, 18, District Four:

I sink lower into the pool of water, letting the frigid water sooth my muscles and my mind. The bathtub in this apartment is huge. Pool- sized even. It's big enough that I when I sink to the bottom, I'm completely submerged with water.

It has all of these fancy faucets too, that make the water hotter, colder, bubbly, smell good, jets, whatever you want. It took me a few minutes to figure out, but I found that there was even a setting to make it salt water. I filled the tub up to the very top and plunged myself inside of it.

There underneath the surface, naked and feeling the salt on my skin, I finally feel like I'm home. It's a comforting feeling. If I close my eyes I could be swimming in the ocean back in District Four, with Serena or Murray. I could be fishing with my dad. I silently pray that the arena tomorrow will be tropical. If it feels like home than there's not a doubt in my mind that I will win.

Every ounce of me misses District Four. The warm sand between my toes, the sound of the cicada screeching in the background, and the salty, fishy smelling breeze. Mostly I miss the the constant radiating blaze of the sun on my back and shoulders. The Capitol is too cold. I hate the feeling of the mountain air. It feels stuffy and makes me shiver. In comparison, District Four feels like a living vacation. Finn doesn't feel the same way. He loves the Capitol. He would. Stupid, arrogant little boy. He belongs here. That's why he won't make it in the arena. Everyone knows if Capitol people wouldn't make it past the first five minutes of the Games.

My heart aches for my District, and for home. But as I move my arms up and down in the water, I remember why I am here in the first place. For my District. To bring honor and gifts to all the people that I love back home. I think of what it will be like to win.

My father will be so proud of me. He's been dreaming of that moment since I was little, and I won't disappoint him. I think of Serena too, and how she'll have to forgive me when I win. I'll do whatever I have to. Beg. Plead. Even shower her with dresses from the boutiques in the Town Center if I have too.

Then my mind drifts to Murray. His kind, handsome face and suddenly I'm overwhelmed with how much I miss him. I know he's sitting back in District Four watching every single thing I do on the Capitol programming. As both my trainer and my boyfriend, he wants me to win, and is analyzing my chances. I know he's glued to the screens.

I think of what he'd say to me if he was here and I can practically hear his voice in my head; _"What are you doing in the water, Sed? There's water_ _ **at**_ _ **home.**_ _Enjoy your last night in a Capitol bed and get some sleep. Tomorrow is the day you prove yourself."_

I chuckle to myself and take the advice, lifting my body from the water and wrapping myself in a thick towel.

Murray's right. Tomorrow is the day I prove myself.

Lykon Sestius, 18, District Two:

I'm panting, and my breath is hitched. Beads of sweat are rolling down my cheeks and neck, as I grunt over and over again. I'm focused, and I don't stop. Over and over again I push myself. Harder and harder, my elbows slamming into my knees as I do sit up after sit up. Exerting m muscles feels good. Right. It's the perfect way to spend the night before the Games. I don't see the point in sitting around talking about them. That's now you win. It's just like all the other stupid things like the interviews. None of it matters. When the gong rings out, the only thing that will matter is how strong you are. How easily you can kill. So, I ready myself and do another hundred sit ups.

All of this; the Capitol trip, the tribute parade, the interviews, is all crap. Tomorrow is when the real Games begin. Where I will truly shine.

Waverly Tuffington, 27, Capitol:

The interviews were perfect. Better than perfect actually, they were _phenomenal_. An orchestrated piece of art. They couldn't have been better if I had scripted them myself. And believe me, if I could have, I would. The word perfectionist is almost synonymous with my names these days. Or so my Gamemakers tell me.

Of course, there were surprises. Things I wasn't expecting, like that boy from three. He had such extensive knowledge of the Games he could have been a contestant on a Capitol Game show. I wish we had had more of a chance to ask him about it, because I'm sure he's a bloodbath and that's a shame. But what chance does he have with those powerhouses from One and Two running around the arena. _My_ arena. In all it's perfect glory.

There was a sense of relaxation for most of us Gamemakers during the interviews. We weren't crowded around the tech hub whispering in tense nervous voices like we usually are. Instead we were all seated together in the audience, dressed to the nines and watching just like everyone else. It is the last time I will only be _watching_ the Games, and I try to savor it.

From every moment on, I will have a headset plastered to my head, and my eyes glued to the screens of the hub. I will need to be a lion, making sure I dominate the Games. What most people don't know. What you can't know until you do the job yourself, is that being Head Gamemaker is like being the most important tribute in the Games.

I take the time to enjoy the interviews with my fellow Gamemakers, sitting beside my friend Atticus. Together we sip sparkling wine and try to view the tributes as the Capitol audience does. Sometimes it helps to see them as the people do. It makes it easier to decide what to do to them in the arena. And it gives us an idea of who the favorites are. Some are easily guessed, like the Careers. Or the boy from Ten. But some are surprises. I never would have guessed the audience would scream as loudly as they did for the girl from Seven; Morgan. She seemed pretty plain to me, but it's clear the audience adores her. I make sure to make a mental note of that. And I can't ignore the way the boy from Ten lights up the stage. He has the Capitol audiences eating out of the palm of his hand. I knew they would love him. My female Gamemakers haven't stopped talking about him since his private session.

"Are you enjoying the fruits of your labor?" Atticus asks, chuckling quietly as the girl from Twelve flits to her seat beside Cesar. He's looking at me with his classic toothy smile, and I know he's having fun. The fun that someone is able to have when they're not in charge.

"Oh I'm downright delighted," I tell him, smirking as I watch the girl from Twelve toss her hair in a very calculated move.

I'm enjoying the interviews too, but it's different. I'm in charge. My mind is running with all the things I need to check on for tomorrow. The weapons, the tunnels of the preparation rooms, and the supplies. Every single element of my carefully designed arena has to be signed off by me, and me alone. I made sure of that.

By the time the interviews end, all of the other Gamemakers are headed home, ready to get the first full night's sleep for anywhere from two weeks to two months. No one ever knows how long the Games will last. Of course, I do have a hand in it somewhat. And this year I want a _long_ one. Our new hub was designed with bedrooms equipped for the long nights of the Games. There is a system that schedules who sleeps and who works. That way there is always a certain number of people tending to the arena and tending to my tributes. As Gamemakers we will eat, sleep and breathe the Hunger Games until the Victor is crowned.

But I do not have the luxury of going home tonight. My after-interview plans were arraigned by the President, and I don't plan on disappointing him.

I keep running my hands over my dress as I get up from my seat. It was expensive. Too expensive. At least a month's rent, but I didn't care. Golden Hendricks' stylist is well worth the money. It's made of a shiny hot pink material that perfectly matched my eyes. It's one shouldered too, with a thick shoulder pad. It's very Capitol. And unlike anything else I usually wear, but I know that this is the style the President will prefer.

I quietly make my way to the back of the theater, where two Peacekeepers are clutching a sign with my name printed on it.

"Good evening, boys" I tell them as they lead me to a sleek, shiny black car outside, and open the door for me. "Did you enjoy the show?"

One of the Peacekeepers smirk as he gets in the seat beside me. "Oh, very much, Ms. Tuffington. It's gonna be a good Games this year."

The car is an expensive one I can tell from the way it effortlessly shoots forward through the narrow Capitol streets, passing the residents of the city so quickly that they're just a blur of bright colors and laughter. The President has spared no expense.

"And did you bet?" I ask, crossing my legs, my eyes locked on the Peacekeeper's in the rearview window. Through the helmet I see him crack a smile.

"Just this morning," the Peacekeeper replies with a sheepish smile. Not that I needed the confirmation. No one bets more than the Peacekeepers here. The Capitol Residents prefer to sponsor tributes. To have a hand in who wins. Peacekeepers like to gamble.

"Got any insider information?" the Peacekeeper presses, his eyes glued to mine, and I actually laugh.

People in the Capitol always try to press me for information about the Games. From the moment they find out that I am in charge, it's the only thing they want to know. Not that I blame them. The Hunger Games is the most exciting event of the year. Everyone wants to be involved in any way they can.

"Come on now," I say evenly, using the professional mask that has become my comfort. "You and I both know that I can't say a word about the Games. It's against the rules."

Both Peacekeepers chuckle good-naturedly and make casual conversation about their favorite Games while I watch the crowds of people in the city that we pass by. They're all exuberant, watching recaps of the interviews, crowding into souvenir shops, and lining up around the block to make their bets.

The car pulls up in front of a crowded restaurant that is lined with people who have just come from the interviews. I can tell from the way that they're dressed. It's even more ridiculous than normal. They're funky Capitol clothes have been replaced with equally as ridiculous evening gowns. In comparison, my dress looks tame.

The Peacekeepers push past the crowds of Capitol people and lead me through the front of the restaurant. It's a full house tonight, full of laughing and chattering people. The giant screens in the back of the room are all showing _Hunger Games_ related programming, including recaps of the tribute parades, interviews, and Claudius Templesmiths' analysis.

The Peacekeepers clear a line through the room, leading me carefully. As we move, I see several familiar faces in the crowds. Mentors are littered across the restaurant floor, clustered in groups with hopeful sponsors, foraging the bonds that may or may not keep their tributes alive. A few of them look up with recognition, and I realize they know exactly who I am. I can tell from the sharp gaze they direct at me and the way they sit up straighter. They know that I control the lives of their tributes. They're showing respect. They have too.

In the very back of the room, is a roped off booth that is clearly caught the attention of most of the patrons here. Inside of it sits Cesar Flickerman and his band of groupies. He waves excitedly to me.

"Waverly!" he cheers in his usually dramatic tone. "Join us! We'd love a chat with a Gamemaker the night before the celebration begins, wouldn't we?" He turns to his group ad they all nod and giggle excitedly.

The Peacekeepers don't stop long to let me talk. "You know I'd love to Cesar, but I'm far too busy tonight. I have to make sure the Games are exciting, don't I?" I smile.

"Oh yes you do!" Cesar laughs, making his entire group chortle in unison, "We won't keep you, Waverly. Tend to your hunger, and then to your Games."

I smile again, glad I don't have to put up with Cesar's probing questions and pretentious personality for the evening. I like Cesar, but only in small doses. I respect that he's a big part of what keeps the Games running, but as a person, he's too much. That and his new red hair is just garish. I can hardly look at it with a straight face.

The Peacekeepers lead me up a flight of marble stairs at the back of the restaurant and to a private room. When they open the door, I saw a long oak table with a pearlescent tablecloth covered in beautiful foods and wines.

There are only two chairs. One on either end. President Snow sits at the furthest one. He's sipping blood-red wine from a crystal glass and stops to smile when he sees me. The wine still covers his teeth as he does.

"Ms. Tuffington," he says in greeting, "take a seat."

There's something weird about sitting across from the leader of our country. Sure, I've met him many times, but as Head Gamemaker there is a certain amount of pressure put on me that makes the interaction uncomfortable.

"Of course, Mr. President," I say and sit down in the plush chair. "Thank you for inviting me tonight."

The President nods. "Of course. I know the importance of tomorrow, I thought you could use a nice meal to relax you."

I know the President well enough to know that this dinner is not about my relaxation, or making sure I'm fed. If there's one person who understands that I love and breath the Games, it's the President. If he's invited me here tonight, there is a reason for it.

I take a swig from the wine glass in front of me and notice that the President's eyes are glued to me as I do.

"I am very proud of the job you have done so far," the President says, complimenting me carefully. "I think these Games will be very satisfactory. Public opinion seems to be very supportive."

I nod. "People are excited."

President Snow smiles. "Yes, they are. They love the Games, don't they? It's the whole idea of them. The opportunity for a young, beautiful district child to make something of themselves. The people of this country love that. They root for it."

He's pauses to rest his white, thin hand across his cheek, twirling his wine glass in the other hand.

"What I need from you, Ms. Tuffington," the President says, watching the red liquid swirl against the crystal glass, "is to make sure that that victor is not the boy from Eleven or the girls from Three and Ten."

I release the breath I was holding on too. This is what he asked me here to discuss? The rigged tributes. I thought that had already been handled. Doesn't the President know me and my work ethic well enough to know I'd _never_ let a rigged tribute win the Games? That would be a failure and I don't do failure.

"Believe me President, they won't be," I tell him, nodding my head firmly. My voice resounded and strong "I'd be surprised if any of them made it past the first five minutes of the Games. And if they do, I can assure they'll die bloody." I take another sip of the wine in front of me and the President offers me an impossible white smile.

"That is what I like to hear, Ms. Tuffington."

The dinner lasts one hour exactly. After that I am shuffled out of the restaurant, into a car, and dropped off back to the Games headquarters.

I twist my hair out of its updo and let it fall down my shoulders as I make my way into the hub. I have to scan my fingerprints, retinas and input a nine-digit pin to get in. The extra security measures were my idea. I didn't want anyone touching my arena or interfering with my Games. Three stroked of the keys and the screens alive with the arena. The giant hologram of it appears in front of me, and I turn it slowly, admiring every element and curve of its perfect design. I'm almost drooling at the thought of the tribute standing in it tomorrow. It's going to feel so vindicating to finally watch ten months of work come to alive.

I open my metal folder in front of me and go over every last-minute preparation. The weapon list, the supplies, the tributes outfits. _Everything._

There isn't a single problem. Everything is perfect. Tomorrow it will all play out exactly as it should. Tomorrow is the day I've been waiting over a year for. Tomorrow is the day I become the most powerful person in the entire country.

I can't wait.

 _The Morning Of:_

Melody Twig, 15, District Eleven:

I just want to sleep. That's all I want.

For some reason, I actually slept well last night. I had anticipated a sleepless night full of tossing and turning, and vivid nightmares that would haunt me for ten hours. But instead, I had a resting, peaceful sleep. When I did dream, it was of nice things. Delicious food. Pretty dresses. Peace.

There was no beaten Bale in my sleep. My family wasn't starving. I wasn't in the Capitol. There was no Games. I just enjoyed it.

So when my stylists come barging into the room at six am sharp to deliver me to the Games, all I feel towards them is anger. I don't know what else to feel. I know I just lost out on the last few restful hours I will ever have, and I hate them for it.

Maia Boyle, 18, District One:

I wake up on the morning of the Games with only one feeling. Confidence. It's radiating through my pores and filling my head, as I gently wake up smiling.

Today is a momentous day. An exciting one. The day I begin the one thing I've been training my entire life for, the Hunger Games.

Up until this point, I had a pretty good idea that I was going to win and be the victor, but there was always one lingering fear in the back of my brain. One little worry that made me think this entire win could be ripped from my perfectly manicured hands. And its name was Brandi Boyle.

Sure, I know I am just as good-looking as Brandi. Just as talented. Just as determined. On paper, Brandi was _never_ better than me. The opposite actually. I _always_ outperformed him, and he certainly didn't want it more. But still, everyone is always drawn to Brandi. He's charismatic and manipulates people in a way that I've never been able too. And that worried me. Because while talent and drive are important, the Hunger Games are still a television show. And Brandi knows how to be a star.

But that all changed last night.

I pulled out every stop for my interview. Every smile. Every smirk. Every quippy comment in my arsenal. I made the Capitol like me just as much as my brother. I even made myself more beautiful than him. For the first time I made us even competitors. And he knows it.

I had my suspicions that my performance worried him after his strange treatment of me with the other Career's but it wasn't until I quietly crept back into the dining room for some water and found him showing his tongue down Golden's throat that I realized just how right I was.

It took everything in me not to burst into laughter when I saw him leading our mentor back to his room. He had to charm her to make sure she helped him. He knew that his skills alone weren't enough to get her to favor him. He had to seduce her to make sure she was fully on his side. That's how good I was, and it plastered a confident smile on my face for the rest of the night.

Who cares if I can't depend on Golden anymore? I don't need her. If she's siding with Brandi, I already know how stupid she is.

Brandi must think he has no chance of winning this thing. None whatsoever. Why else would he pull a stupid stunt like that? Something so pathetic. I know why. It's because he thinks I'm going to win. And he's right.

So when my stylists wake me up the next morning at dawn, I'm in a fantastic mood, skipping out of bed and dressing with a renewed excitement. My stylist chatters away happily as I slip on a simple white tracksuit, knowing I'll have to change in a few hours anyway, and she tells me how her roommates are rooting for me. How I'm their favorite, and it only makes me smile wider. Of course, I am. The Capitol people know a victor when they see one.

I take my time in the bathroom, looking at my face for longer than necessary. A good night's sleep did wonders for my face. It's as fresh and lovely as ever. My hair sits long and full on my shoulders, a perfect curtain of silver. My snowy complexion is even and clear, showing off the bright fierce blue of my eyes.

I carefully trace all of my features as I wash my face with cold water, unable to stop smiling no matter what I do. Today is more exciting than any birthday or holiday I've ever had. It will be more fun than anything else I've ever done.

I take one longer look at my reflection and allow myself one more confident smirk. After this moment, I cannot afford to be cocky anymore. I will need to focus and through myself into killing mode. I will be the deadliest tribute in that arena.

I hope my brother is ready.

Lydia Light, 16, District 5:

The ride in the hovercraft with my stylist is a quiet one.

Neither of us have much to say to one another and I don't think anyone blames us. How could we, after all? We both know what kind of horrors I'm going to be thrown into in a few hour's time. There's nothing that either of us could say to each other to make that less frightening. Small talk would be a waste of time, so instead we stay quiet.

I decide that this isn't the worst thing in the world anyway. I like the sensation of gliding through the air in the hovercraft. It's relaxing, and it lets my mind wander. Which isn't a bad thing today. The ride is so nice that I barely flinch when one of the Capitol attendants shoots my arm with my tracker. I just keep tracing my fingertips over the little bump and think.

I decide eventually to focus on what I'm about to do. I think of all the arena's and past Hunger Games I've ever seen. Of what happens the second the gong rings out. It's a bloodbath, it always is. The only way to escape immediate death is to try to high tail it out of there as quick as you can.

I frown. I'm not much of a runner, but I'm also smart enough to know that running is my only option. Thankfully, I don't think the other tributes expect much from me. I doubt I'm any one's first target. Most of the tributes look away from me pretty quickly. No one likes looking at the poor burned girl for very long.

I overheard the girl from One tell her brother at training that my face made her nauseous. It's not anything I haven't heard before. Kids back home in the district have said crueler things. In fact, today, I don't even mind that my scarred face makes me hard to look at. If people look away from me, they can't kill me as easily.

As long as I stay far away from the deadliest tributes and head for cover, I should be able to make it past the initial killings.

I'm certainly not strong enough to try and fight for the supplies in the Cornucopia. I'll let the others do that. I'd rather stay alive and forage for supplies in the arena.

I'm running over edible plants and water sources in my head when the hovercraft finally lands. I can't see exactly where we are because the window are blacked out, but a group of Capitol attendants lead me and my stylist through a series of underground tunnels and stop in front of a door marked, District Five Female.

I repeat the phrase over and over in my head. District Five Female. _District Five Female._ To these people that's all I am. The female tribute from District Five. I am nothing. Forgettable.

I hope the other tributes feel the same way. It's the only way I'll stay alive.

Tyler Minroe, 15, District Six:

Sometimes my mentor can be real idiot.

I mean I like the guy fine, but he doesn't seem to know the first thing about staying alive in these Games. It's a wonder how he ever managed to win this thing. He kept me from talking with the Careers after the interviews on purpose and I know I had to have missed some valuable information on what their plan is, so now I'll just have to wing it. Which I'm usually pretty good at, but I didn't want to have to do. It's hard enough to stick with the Careers without being the stupidest one there too.

My mentor told me he thinks sticking with the Careers is a way to get killed, I told him I'd rather die at their hands later than be bored the whole time and get killed by some nobody later. He stopped listening to me after that, and just wished me a quiet good luck.

But I don't really care all that much what he thinks about my plan. I like it. Sticking with the Careers is the only way this whole Hunger Games won't suck for me, so I'm sticking with it. If I have to be dragged to that arena, I'm going to have fun at least. That's what I've been doing this whole time, and so far, I've been enjoying myself. Say what you want about me, but I know how to have a good time.

So that's what I do when I get ready for the Games. I joke with my stylist during our hovercraft ride and with the attendant who injects my tracker. There're strawberries on board, and I turn it into an eating contest that makes me stylist double over with laughter.

By the time we get to the underground part of the arena, I'm basically doing a comedy routine for my guards and attendants that makes every last one of them smirk. I keep it going in the room I wait in, even calling the tube that will launch me into the Games a tube slide. It's probably a defense mechanism, because looking at the tube does my stomach do an uncomfortable little flip, but I ignore it. There's no fun in being worried, so I'm not going to let myself do it.

Instead, I gorge myself on the breakfast platter that's spread out in front of me and chat happily with my stylist about the arenas I hope I'll get.

"Do you have a preference?" my stylists asks as I work on my fourth breakfast sandwich.

I grin with a mouth full of food, "I'm hoping for tropics. I've never seen an ocean. A beach would be fun. Maybe I'll get an interesting farmers tan."

She chuckles and makes me drink some water. By the time the cool female announcer's voice is telling me to get on the launch pad, I'm in a pretty good mood. One way or another, this thing has to start. Hopefully, it might even be a little exciting. I climb on the launch pad and hope I'm close to at least one of the Careers. I need to remind them that I'm one of them. I'm an ally. Somehow, despite all the odds, in these Games, I'm a Career.

And Career's always have the most fun.

Velvet Wilkinson, 16, District Eight:

I had nightmares again last night. Horrible flashes of Games and arenas that I'd seen in the past with the faces of this year's tributes thrown in to make them even more terrifying and real for me.

I was disturbed by the sheer amount of times that Finn's face made it in there. The Career that has made it very clear he wants to kill me himself. Even thinking about being in the arena with him makes my skin start to crawl, but I know there's nothing I can do about it.

Junez told me all I have to do is outrun him, but I don't know if that will be enough. Sure, if he's halfway across the cornucopia from me, I probably can. But what if the Gamemakers put him right beside me? He'd probably strangle me with his bare hands before the I had time to take my foot off the launchpad.

I'm quiet most of the morning, doing whatever I can to keep my mind off of Finn and how great he is at wielding that stupid trident.

I'm grateful that the morning before the Games is spent with your stylist, because Tilly comforts me the entire time. She is the person here that I'm closest to besides Junez. There's something about her bubbly personality and great advice that reminds me of my mom. She fills all of the silence the entire time we ride in the hovercraft and make our way to the waiting room. She's highly perceptive and great at alternating the conversation between advice for the arena and things that would distract me, like sewing.

The only time I'm away from her is to take a very hot shower in the bathroom. It feels good on my muscles and does a little bit to relax me. The pad outside of the shower instantly dries and detangles my hair so that it sits shiny and red on my shoulders. In the mirror I can see the reflection of my naked body and I'm pleased to see that I have put on some weight since being in the Capitol. Probably from all of the rich foods they've been feeding us. Sure, I'm still one of the skinniest tributes here, but I'm not an inch away from starving anymore.

I wrap a towel around my body and leave the room to find Tilly opening the bag on my arena clothes. She examines each piece and then twists her bright blue hair into a bun.

"So? What kind of arena are they throwing me into?" I ask her, clutching the towel tighter and hoping that it's anything but tropics. They're food and plants are the ones I struggled with the most during training.

"I have no idea," Tilly says as she turns to me, with a look of irritation in her knotted eyebrows. "Each one of these pieces contradicts the other."

I curl up on the edge of the couch and frown. "What do you mean? How's that possible?" We had had a long conversation on the hovercraft about how the clothes they put tributes in are very telling. The years it's warm, it's all thin jumpsuits and tank tops. When it's cold, there's thermal clothing and fur lined jackets. And being from Eight, textiles are something I know like the back of my hand.

Tilly sighs and shakes her head. "Look, see these pants?" She holds up a pair of thin forest green pants. "They're built for foresty terrains. So you'd expect some kind of thermal lining right? For the cold nights? But there's none. And these," she yanks on the light grey Henley tee. It's only three quarters, and pretty thin too. It has a matching grey tank top for underneath.

"So maybe it won't be a very cold arena then," I tell her slipping on the pants and corresponding shirts. They fit like a glove. The material is soft and has good mobility. "Maybe it'll be normal."

Tilly raises an electric blue eyebrow, like I'm missing something very obvious.

"That's what I thought. Maybe it won't be tropics warm, but warm right? Then why give you this," she tosses a bundle of something at me. I catch the jacket. It's a heavy, tan colored thing, covered in pockets and lined with a thick, warm collar. It's the kind of thing that Peacekeepers were when it gets freezing in District Eight. It's a jacket built for _very_ cold nights.

"And these," Tilly says handing me a pair of thick warm grey socks.

Suddenly I understand what Tilly means. Half the clothes are for a mild climate, the other half are for an arena that could be covered in snow.

"Why would they give us clothes that don't make any sense?" I ask, slipping on the socks and jacket. "Are they trying to trick us?" That seems like exactly something the Capitol would do. What better way to terrify tributes than outfit them improperly for the arena. As if we didn't have enough to worry about in their already.

Maybe the arena will be cold, and they want us to suffer, or it will be warm and those of us with the jacket on will be immediately distracted when the gong rings out. I wouldn't be surprised either way.

"I have no idea, Velvet. But whatever the reason it's probably not good for the tributes," Tilly says quietly. She looks very nervous. She's chewing on her perfectly painted nails and pacing the room as I slip on the shoes they provided. They're made of buttery brown leather, with thick heavy laces. When I look on the bottom, I smile. They have perfect treads. They're made for running. That's comforting for me. And I know somewhere for Junez too.

"The whole Games isn't very good for the tributes, Til," I remind her darkly. "They're dropping me in an arena full of people who want to knife me in the back."

Tilly's eyes grow dark and she frowns, the way she always does when I remind her about the grittier, violent side of the Games, and I sigh, not wanting to upset her in the final moments were together.

"Sorry," I whisper quickly, "I couldn't help it."

Tilly shakes her head. "Don't apologize. I can't imagine how your feeling right now. I'd probably say the same things if I were in your position."

She takes my token, the silver coin necklace from my father out of her pocket and places it around my neck and then looking very exasperated, she plops down on the thick fluffy couch, with her head in her hands, and after a minute she lets out a pair of tiny sobs.

Unlike Tilly, I can't afford to sit and cry. In a matter of minutes, I could be dead. So instead I lean against the couch, stretching the muscles in my arms and legs, preparing myself to run the way I do at home. The only chance I have at all of surviving is to fly through that arena like I do in the concrete streets of District Eight.

Tilly watches me while I stretch, her mouth turned into a frown. When I'm done, she forces to me to eat some eggs and sip on some water, and then the two of us sit beside one another rand she clutches my hand in hers, then she quietly pulls my hair out of my face and secures it into a low ponytail. My mind is on fire now, running through the possibilities of what will face me in a minute. I think of my mom, of Seam and Tweed, even of my father. Then I thick of Cecelia, and Junez, and I wonder if he's as nervous as I am right now. He must be right? But then I remember he did get an eight, and maybe he's not worried at all….

I drop my head on Tilly's shoulder and she sighs. "Promise me that you won't' give up in there, okay Velvet? Just try as hard as you can. Fight for it if you have too."

"So don't go running into any knives?" I ask, the ghost of a joke in my tone.

"I'm serious," Tilly says. "Try."

She sounds like a grown-up Tweed when she says this, and my heart tightens at the thought of my best friend back home. They're similar. They're both wise. Tilly's waiting for my answer, so I nod my head carefully. "I'll try," I say quietly.

That's all I can promise her. That I'll try. Try and stay alive.

Morgan Mak, 17, District Seven:

I wish I could have seen Elm this morning before all of the Pre-Games craziness. I know he must be scared and worried enough without having to be all alone too, but unfortunately the only person were allowed to see before the Games is our stylist. It's too bad. I think Elm might have been a comfort to me today.

Last night was the hardest night of my entire. I spent the entire night tossing and turning in bed as I thought of Momma, Poppa, Birch, and Brent. My family. The people I love most in this world, and the ones that I will never see again when I die today.

I'll never bake muffins with Momma in the kitchen or joke with her in my bedroom as she braids ribbons into my hair. I'll never sit with Poppa in the workshops, carefully sawing and staining wood to make beautiful, lasting furniture.

I'll never run through the woods with Brent, chasing hummingbirds and competing to see who can chop down the biggest trees. I'll never tuck Birch into bed and make up stories for him to hear as he falls asleep. There will be no more beautiful, happy family breakfasts. After today, they might continue, but my death will hang over them at the table, and the thought of their unhappiness sends me into another frenzy of crying.

I thought of Baxton too, and how sad he looked when he said to goodbye to me, his beautiful, kind face riddled with grief as he clutched poor baby Willow in his arms. We will never be married. We'll never take care of that sweet baby girl. My entire future will be stripped away from me when I enter that arena and it makes me want to curl into a ball and cry some more.

I spend the entire prep time, from the hovercraft ride to the tunnels thinking about my home back in District Seven. I think of the beautiful town center. I think of the woods where I spent so much time with my brothers. If there is anyone in this whole Capitol looking out for me, then there will be woods in this arena. If I manage to survive the bloodbath, which is unlikely, I will flee to the woods and find a nice thick, oak tree to curl up in. Then at least, I can close my eyes and pretend I'm back home.

My body shivers with fear as I shower in the underground room, knowing what I will have to face in an hour from now. My hands shake so badly as I wash my hair that they keep getting knotted up in the honey colored strands and eventually I end up curled in the corner, crying softly as the water sloshes over me and turns cold.

I only let myself be upset for a few minutes though. The other tributes already know how weak I am in comparison. The last thing I want to do is show up on the launchpad with a pink nose and matching cheeks to let them all know I was sobbing minutes before. No. I want Momma and Poppa to be proud of me when they see me. My brothers too. I don't want them to know I'm scared.

When I come out of the bathroom. My stylist and I open the arena clothes and I'm glad to see that they're simple and fit well. Even though I can't tell what kind of arena I'll be in.

 _Please be forests_ , I beg kindly in my mind, as my stylists takes the time to twist my hair into a long braid down my back.

"It'll keep the hair out of your eyes," she tells me, tears in her eyes. "I want you to be able to see if anyone's coming at you." She's crying now, and it's such a nice gesture it makes my heart hurt.

"Thank you," I tell her and embrace her in a tight hug. "I really appreciate it."

She dabs at her eyes when we break apart and nodes eagerly. "Of course. It was a pleasure to serve you this week, Morgan."

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the wooden cube I made with Sarah and Hailey. My token. The minute I see it, my heart swells up with happiness again. I forgot I could take that into the arena with me, and I'm so glad I brought it. It will bring my comfort in there. Like Sarah and Hailey are watching over me.

My stylist opens the pocket on my jacket, the one right above my heart and places the cube in there.

"Make sure you don't take it out until your safe," she warns. "If you drop it from the launchpad they'll blow you sky high."

"I won't," I tell her, my heart racing with fear at the possibility.

We don't get a chance to say anything else to one another, even though I desperately want to thank her for making this process as painless as possible for me. The voice announcing thirty seconds to the Games has filled the room and my heart begins to thud with nerves.

My mindset has shifted. I can no longer think of home now. Of my parents or my brothers. I stand firmly on the launchpad, and as it closes around me, I know that I now can only think of Elm. He needs me in here. I am all he has.

The voice now says ten seconds and the launchpad slowly starts to rise into the air. I can barely feel my legs now. My whole body is quivering as it rises higher and higher, sending me into a fit of anxiety.

This is the moment I have been dreading since I was reaped. Standing on the launchpad for sixty endless seconds, looking at the arena and all the people who want to kill me will be torture. I take a deep breath as the launchpad rises into the arena and the brilliant sun blinds me for a moment. The countdown begins loudly, and it takes five seconds for my eyes to adjust and take in the sight of the arena.

When I see it, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Marcus Sparks, 13, District Three:

 _Sixty Seconds._

That's how long I have to stand on the launchpad and see as much of the arena as I can before the Games begin. Sixty seconds to scan the arena and delve into my extensive knowledge of Games past to figure out what the best course of action will be. I need to see what the Gamemakers are thinking. I need to be as brilliant as they are. That's my purpose in this Games anyway, right? I'm the smart one. The brilliant tribute. This is where it counts. My launchpad stops rising and my eyes take a few seconds to adjust to the blazing sunlight.

The countdown begins and fills my ears as I stare around me, making sure not to move me feet even an inch from my launchpad.

The golden cornucopia sits evenly in the middle of our twenty-four metal plates, about a hundred feet away from any of us and nestled in a meadow of grass. Even from here I can see it's piled with weapons, food and supplies. There are some other supplies scattered around the outside and spread out closer to our launchpads, but it's clear that all the good stuff is in the middle of the cornucopia. The closest thing to me is a square of silver metal and even _that_ is at least ten feet towards the Cornoupia. It could be helpful, but I calculate that it's not worth the risk of being stabbed. I forgo it.

 _45 seconds left._ I turn my head behind me slightly and see that the Meadow with the Cornucopia seems to be in a circular valley of some kind, surrounded by a circular set of stone steps. There not steep, about ten or twelve of them, but they're uphill and the only way out of this Meadow. It's enough to wind someone who's not used to running, and it's clearly an attempt to slow some of us down. It makes it harder to run out of here at full speed when you're doing it on steps.

It puts our backs to the Cornucopia too. Which means if you're not fast enough, you're going to end up to a knife to the back before you reach the fifth step. Our best chance is to head straight for the steps and try to make it up them before the Careers make it to the weapons.

An even, thick forest starts directly after the steps, with very tall trees. They're _unnaturally_ tall. Probably to hide whatever is beyond them and that makes me shudder. I can't see how deep they go, but I notice a few supplies are scattered at the entrance of the forest too. Maybe to give those of us fast enough to make it out of the meadow a fair chance. That's a little concerning though. What kind of horrors lie in this mystery arena that they felt we needed _more_ supplies?

What is behind those trees?

 _30 seconds._

I face forward quickly, trying to scan the line in front of me. My launchpad is near the side of the the front of the Cornucopia, so I can still see inside of it. If I was a Career, this would be excellent, I could make it straight to the weapons without blinking, but I'm not. I know I will be immediately heading behind me, up the stairs and to the trees.

I look instead to who I am near. They will give me an idea of what I will be in for when the gong rings out. On the right side of me is the girl from Eleven. Melody. The quiet one who always looks a little pissed off. There is absolutely nothing special about this girl whatsoever, so I immediately don't worry and turn to my left side. It's the girl from Ten. The pretty one. Crickett. She is careening on her toes scanning the launchpads like her life depends on it. It takes me only a second to realize that she's looking for her District partner. The big one. Gael. She probably thinks he's her best chance of surprising, and she's most likely right. But I can see him from here. He's at the very back of the Cornucopia, as far away from her as he could be. She has such a slim chance of reaching him before someone murders her. Especially considering one tiny twist of my head reveals that she's beside the girl from One. She has a 1:8 chance of not ending up with one that girl's throwing stars in landing in her head. If I were her, I wouldn't risk it.

 _20 seconds._

I focus myself now, leaning back as far as I can on my launchpad so that I'm nearest to the steps, and as far as possible from the other tributes. Run to the trees. That is my best course of action. Who cares what is beyond them. What choice do I have?

 _10 seconds._

I take a deep breath and ready myself, and then the gong rings out.


End file.
